•   •   •'.'.,-   ~ ^*Wp          ••  -  '  VT^^'  S  '•   '<jT  •   '• 


IRA  I 
EDUC. 


PATIENCE    WORTH 


A  PSYCHIC  MYSTERY 


By 

CASPER  S.   YOST 


NEW  YORK 
HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


EDUO. 

PSYCH. 

LIBRARY 


COPYRIGHT,  1916 

BT 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

Published  February,  1916 


PREFACE 

THE  compiler  of  this  book  is  not  a  spirit- 
ualist, nor  a  psychologist,  tior  a  member  of 
the  Society  for  Psychical  Research;  nor  has 
he  ever  had  anything  more  than  a  transitory 
and  skeptical  interest  in  psychic  phenomena  of 
any  character.  He  is  a  newspaper  man  whose 
privilege  and  pleasure  it  is  to  present  the  facts 
in  relation  to  some  phenomena  which  he  does 
not  attempt  to  classify  nor  to  explain,  but 
which  are  virtually  without  precedent  in  the 
record  of  occult  manifestations.  The  mystery 
of  Patience  Worth  is  one  which  every  reader 
may  endeavor  to  solve  for  himself.  The  sole 
purpose  of  this  narrative  is  to  give  the  jjsible 
truth,  the  physical  evidence,  so  to  speak,  the 
things  that  can  be  seen  and  that  are  therefore 
susceptible  of  proof  by  ocular  demonstration. 
In  this  category  are  the  instruments  of  com- 

iii 


425240 


iv  PREFACE 

munication  and  the  communications  them- 
selves, which  are  described,  explained  and,  in 
some  cases,  interpreted,  where  an  effort  at  in- 
terpretation seems  to  be  desirable. 


CONTENTS 

PAOR 

THE  COMING  OF  PATIENCE  WORTH  ...  1 

NATURE  OF  THE  COMMUNICATIONS  ...  9 

PERSONALITY  OF  PATIENCE       ....  37 

THE  POETRY      .        ......  63 

THE  PROSE 107 

CONVERSATIONS           .        .        .        .        .        .  173 

RELIGION  

THE  IDEAS  ON  IMMORTALITY     .        .       ,.        . 

INDEX                                   .                ...  287 


THE  COMING  OF  PATIENCE 
WORTH 

UPON  a  July  evening  in  1913  two  women 
of  St.  Louis  sat  with  a  ouija  board  upon  their 
knees.  Some  time  before  this  a  friend  had 
-aroused  their  interest  in  this  unfathomable 
toy,  and  they  had  since  whiled  away  many  an 
hour  with  the  inscrutable  meanderings  of  the 
heart-shaped  pointer;  but,  like  thousands  of 
others  who  had  played  with  the  instrument, 
they  had  found  it,  up  to  this  date,  but  little 
more  than  a  source  of  amused  wonder.  The 
messages  which  they  had  laboriously  spelled 
out  were  only  such  as  might  have  come  from 
the  subconsciousness  of  either  one  or  the  other, 
or,  at  least,  were  no  more  strange  than  innu- 
merable communications  which  have  been  re- 
ceived through  the  reading  of  the  ouija  board. 

But  upon  this  night  they  received  a  visitor. 
The  pointer  suddenly  became  endowed  with 


£  ;  PATIENCE  WORTH 

an  unusual  agility,  and  with  great  rapidity 
presented  this  introduction: 

"  Many  moons  ago  I  lived.  Again  I  come. 
Patience  Worth  my  name." 

The  women  gazed,  round-eyed,  at  each  other, 
and  the  board  continued: 

"  Wait.  I  would^speak  with  thee.  If  thou 
shalt  live,  then  so  shall  I.  I  make  my  bread  by 
thy  hearth.  Good  friends,  let  us  be  merrie. 
The  time  for  work  is  past.  Let  the  tabbie 
drowse  and  blink  her  wisdom  to  the  fire- 

log." 

"  How  quaint  that  is! "  one  of  the  women 
exclaimed. 

"  Good  Mother  Wisdom  is  too  harsh  for 
thee,"  said  the  board,  "  and  thou  shouldst  love 
her  only  as  a  foster  mother." 

Thus  began  an  intimate  association  with 
"  Patience  Worth  "  that  still  continues,  and 
a  series  of  communications  that  in  intellectual 
vigor  and  literary  quality  are  virtually  without 
precedent  in  the  scant  imaginative  litera- 
ture quoted  in  the  chronicles  of  psychic  phe- 
nomena. 


THE  COMING  OF  PATIENCE  WORTH       3 

The  personality  of  Patience  Worth — if  per- 
sonality it  may  be  called — so  impressed  itself 
upon  these  women,  at  the  first  visit,  that  they 
got  pencil  and  paper  and  put  down  not  only 
all  that  she  transmitted  through  the  board, 
but  all  the  questions  and  comment  that  elicited 
her  remarks;  and  at  every  meeting  since 
then,  a  verbatim  record  has  been  made 
of  the  conversation  and  the  communica- 
tions. 

These  records  have  accumulated  until  they 
have  filled  several  volumes  of  typewritten 
pages,  and  upon  them,  and  upon  the  writer's 
personal  observations  of  the  workings  of  the 
phenomena,  this  narrative  is  based.  They 
include  conversations,  maxims,  epigrams,  alle- 
gories, tales,  dramas,  poems,  all  the  way  from 
sportive  to  religious,  and  even  prayers,  most  of 
them  of  no  little  beauty  and  of  a  character 
that  may  reasonably  be  considered  unique  in 
literature. 

The  women  referred  to  are  Mrs.  John  H. 
Curran,  wife  of  the  former  Immigration  Com- 


4i  PATIENCE  WORTH 

missioner  of  Missouri,  and  Mrs.  Emily  Grant 
Hutchings,  both  ladies  of  culture  and  re- 
finement. Mrs.  Curran  is  a  young  woman 
of  nervous  temperament,  bright,  vivacious, 
ready  of  speech.  She  has  a  taste  for  litera- 
ture, but  is  not  a  writer,  and  has  never 
attempted  to  write  anything  more  ambitious 
than  a  personal  letter.  Mrs.  Hutchings,  on 
the  other  hand,  is  a  professional  writer  of  skill, 
and  it  was  to  her  quick  appreciation  of  the 
quality  of  the  communications  that  the  start- 
ing of  the  record  is  due.  It  was  soon  apparent, 
however,  that  it  was  Mrs.  Curran  who  was  the 
sole  agent  of  transmission;  for  the  communica- 
tions came  only  when  she  was  at  the  board, 
and  it  mattered  not  who  else  sat  with  her. 
During  the  first  months  only  Mrs.  Curran  and 
Mrs.  Hutchings  sat,  but  gradually  the  circle 
widened,  and  others  assisted  Mrs.  Curran. 
Sometimes  as  many  as  five  or  six  would  sit  with 
her  in  the  course  of  an  evening.  Mr.  Curran 
has  acted  as  amanuensis,  and  recorded  the  com- 
munications at  most  of  the  sittings,  Mrs.  Cur- 


THE  COMING  OF  PATIENCE  WORTH       5 

ran's  mother,  Mrs.  Mary  E.  Pollard,  occa- 
sionally taking  his  place. 

The  ouija  board  is  a  rectangular  piece  of 
wood  about  16  inches  wide  by  24  inches  in 
length  and  half  an  inch  thick.  Upon  it  the 
letters  of  the  alphabet  are  arranged  in  two 
concentric  arcs,  with  the  ten  numerals  below, 
and  the  words  "  Yes  "  and  "  No  "  at  the  upper 
corners.  The  planchette,  or  pointer,  is  a  thin, 
heart-shaped  piece  of  wood  provided  with 
three  legs,  upon  which  it  moves  about  upon 
the  board,  its  point  indicating  the  letters  of 
the  words  it  is  spelling.  Two  persons  are 
necessary  for  its  operation.  They  place  the 
tips  of  their  fingers  lightly  upon  the  pointer 
and  wait.  Perhaps  it  moves;  perhaps  it  does 
not.  Sometimes  it  moves  aimlessly  about  the 
board,  spelling  nothing;  sometimes  it  spells 
words,  but  is  unable  to  form  a  sentence;  but 
often  it  responds  readily  enough  to  the  im- 
pulses which  control  it,  and  even  answers  ques- 
tions intelligibly,  occasionally  in  a  way  that 
excites  the  wonder  and  even  the  awe  of  those 


6  PATIENCE  WORTH 

about  it.  Its  powers  have  been  attributed  by 
some  to  supernatural  influence,  by  others  to 
subconsciousness,  but  science  has  looked  upon 
it  with  disdain,  as,  until  recent  years,  science 
has  looked  upon  nearly  all  unprecedented 
phenomena. 

Mr.  W.  T.  Carrington,  an  eminent  English 
investigator  of  psychical  phenomena,  in  an 
exhaustive  work  upon  the  subject,  has  this  to 
say  of  the  ouija  board:  "  Granting  for  the  sake 
of  argument  that  the  board  is  moved  by  the 
sitter,  either  consciously  or  unconsciously,  the 
great  and  vital  question  still  remains :  What  is 
the  intelligence  behind  the  board,  that  directs 
the  phenomena?  Whoever  sets  out  to  give  a 
final  and  decisive  answer  to  this  question  in  the 
present  state  of  our  knowledge  will  have  his 
task  cut  out  for  him,  and  I  wish  him  happiness 
in  the  undertaking.  Personally  I  am  attempt- 
ing nothing  of  the  kind." 

The  ouija  board  has  been  in  use  for  many 
years.  There  is  no  element  of  novelty  in  the 
mere  fact  that  curious  and  puzzling  messages 
are  received  by  means  of  it.  I  emphasize  this 


THE  COMING  OF  PATIENCE  WORTH       7 

fact  because  I  wish  to  place  the  board  in  its 
proper  relation  to  the  communications  from 
the  intelligence  calling  herself  Patience 
Worth.  Aside  from  the  psychical  problem 
involved — and  which,  so  far  as  the  board  is 
concerned,  is  the  same  in  this  case  as  in  many 
others — the  ouija  board  has  no  more  signifi- 
cance than  a  pen  or  a  pencil  in  the  hand.  It  is 
merely  an  instrument  for  the  transmission  of 
thought  in  words.  In  comparison  with  the  per- 
sonality and  the  literature  which  it  reveals  in 
this  instance,  it  is  a  factor  of  little  significance. 
It  is  proper  to  say,  however,  at  this  point, 
that  every  word  attributed  to  Patience  Worth 
in  this  volume  was  received  by  Mrs.  Curran 
through  this  instrument. 


NATURE  OF  THE  COMMUNICA- 
TIONS 

"  He  who  buildeth  with  peg  and  cudgel  but  buildeth 
a  toy  for  an  age  who  will  but  cast  aside  the  bauble  as 
naught ;  but  he  who  buildeth  with  word,  a  quill  and 
a  fluid,  buildeth  well." — PATIENCE  WORTH. 

THERE  are  a  number  of  things  that  dis- 
tinguish Patience  Worth  from  all  other  "  in- 
telligences "  that  have  been  credited  with 
communications  pretending  to  come  from  a 
spiritual  source.  First  is  her  intellect.  One 
of  the  strongest  arguments  against  the  gen- 
uineness of  such  communications  has  been 
the  lack  of  intelligence  often  displayed  in 
them.  They  have  largely  been,  though  with 
many  exceptions,  crude  emanations  of  weak 
mentalities,  and  few  of  the  exceptions  -have 
shown  greater  intellect  or  greater  knowledge 
than  is  possessed  by  the  average  human  being. 

9 


10  PATIENCE  WORTH 

In  a  work  entitled,  "  Is  Death  the 
End?"  Dr.  John  H.  Holmes,  an  eminent 
New  York  divine,  gives  considerable  space 
to  the  psychic  evidence  of  immortality.  In 
the  course  of  his  discussion  of  this  phase  of 
his  subject  he  concisely  describes  the  character- 
istic features  of  psychic  communications. 
"  Nobody,"  he  says,  "  can  study  the  evidence 
gathered  in  this  particular  field  without  notic- 
ing, first  of  all,  the  triviality,  almost  the  in- 
anity, of  the  communications  received.  Here 
we  come,  eager  for  the  evidence  of  future  life 
and  information  as  to  what  it  means  to  die  and 
pass  into  the  great  beyond.  And  what  do  we 
get?  First  of  all — and  naturally  enough,  per- 
haps— frantic  efforts  on  the  part  of  the  alleged 
spirits  to  prove  their  identity  by  the  citation 
of  intricate  and  unimportant  details  of  where 
they  were  and  what  they  did  at  different  times 
when  they  were  here  among  men.  Sometimes 
there  is  a  recounting  of  an  event  which  is 
taking  place  in  a  part  of  the  world  far  re- 
moved from  the  locality  in  which  the  medium 
and  the  recipient  are  sitting.  Again  and 


NATURE  OF  THE  COMMUNICATIONS       11 

again  there  is  a  descent  to  obscurity  and  feeble 
chattering." 

I  quote  this  passage,  not  merely  because 
it  so  clearly  states  the  experience  and  con- 
clusions of  many  who  have  investigated  these 
phenomena,  but  because  it  serves  to  show 
by  its  marked  contrast  the  wonder  of 
the  communications  from  Patience  Worth. 
There  are  no  efforts  on  her  part  to  prove 
her  identity.  On  the  contrary,  she  can 
rarely  be  induced  to  speak  of  herself,  and  the 
personal  information  she  has  reluctantly  given 
is  disappointingly  meager.  "  About  me,"  she 
says,  "  thou  wouldst  know  much.  Yesterday 
is  dead.  Let  thy  mind  rest  as  to  the  past." 
She  never  speaks  of  her  own  acts  as  a  physical 
being;  she  never  refers  to  any  event  taking 
place  in  the  world  now  or  that  has  taken  place 
in  the  past.  But  far  more  important  than 
these,  she  reveals  an  intellect  that  is  worthy 
of  any  man's  respect.  It  is  at  once  keen,  swift, 
subtle  and  profound.  There  is  not  once  but 
always  a  "  sustained  level  of  clear  thought  and 
fine  feeling."  There  is  obscurity  at  times,  but 


1*  PATIENCE  WORTH 

it  is  usually  the  obscurity  of  profundity,  and 
intelligent  study  generally  reveals  a  meaning 
that  is  worth  the  effort.  There  is  never  a 
"  focusing  of  attention  upon  the  affairs  of  this 
world,"  except  for  the  purpose  of  displaying 
its  beauties  and  its  wonders,  and  to  assist  in 
explaining  the  world  that  she  claims  is  to 
come.  For  that  other  world  she  seems  to  try 
to  explain  as  far  as  some  apparent  limitations 
permit,  speaks  as  few  have  spoken  before,  and 
her  words  often  bring  delight  to  the  mind  and 
consolation  to  the  soul. 

Before  considering  these  communications  in 
detail,  it  would  be  well  for  the  reader  to  be- 
come a  little  better  acquainted  with  the  al- 
leged Patience  herself.  I  speak  of  her  as  a 
person,  for  whatever  she,  or  it,  may  be,  the 
impression  of  a  distinct  personality  is  clear  and 
definite;  and  it  is,  besides,  more  convenient 
so  to  designate  her.  Patience  as  a  rule 
speaks  an  archaic  tongue  that  is  in  general  the 
English  language  of  about  the  time  of  the 


NATURE  OF  THE  COMMUNICATIONS       13 

Stuarts,  but  which  contains  elements •  of  a 
usage  still  more  ancient,  and,  not  rarely,  word 
and  phrase  forms  that  seem  never  to  have 
been  used  in  English  or  in  any  English  dialect. 
Almost  all  of  her  words,  however,  whether  in 
conversation  or  in  literary  composition,  are 
of  pure  Anglo-Saxon-Norman  origin.  There  is 
seldom  a  word  of  direct  Latin  or  Greek  parent- 
age. Virtually  all  of  the  objects  she  refers  to 
are  things  that  existed  in  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury or  earlier.  In  all  of  the  great  mass  of 
manuscript  that  has  come  from  her  we  have  not 
noticed  a  single  reference  to  an  object  of  mod- 
ern creation  or  development;  nor  have  more 
than  a  dozen  words  been  found  in  her  writings 
that  may  be  of  later  origin  than  the  seven- 
teenth century,  and  some  of  these  words  are 
debatable.  She  has  shown,  in  what  would 
seem  to  be  a  genuinely  feminine  spirit  of 
perversity,  that  she  can  use  a  modern  word  if 
she  chooses  to  do  so.  And  if  she  is  living  now, 
no  matter  when  she  was  on  earth,  why  should 
she  not?  (She  has  twice  used  the  word 


14  PATIENCE  WORTH 

"  shack,"  meaning  a  roughly  constructed 
cabin,  a  word  which  is  in  that  sense  so  new  and 
so  local  that  it  has  but  recently  found  a  place 
in  the  dictionaries.)  But  the  fact  remains  that 
the  number  of  such  words  is  so  small  as  to  be 
negligible. 

Only  one  who  has  tried  to  write  in  archaic 
English  without  committing  anachronisms  can 
realize  its  tremendous  difficulty.  We  are  so 
saturated  with  words  and  idioms  of  modern 
origin  that  it  is  almost  impossible  wholly  to 
discard  them,  even  when  given  every  advan- 
tage of  time  and  reflection.  How  much  more 
difficult  must  it  be  then  to  use  and  maintain 
such  language  without  an  error  in  ordinary 
impromptu  conversation,  answering  questions 
that  could  not  have  been  expected,  and  flash- 
ing repartee  that  is  entirely  dependent  upon 
the  situation  or  remarks  of  the  moment.  Yet 
Patience  does  this  with  marvelous  facility.  So 
she  can  hardly  be  Mrs.  Curran. 

All  of  her  knowledge  of  material  things 
seems  to  be  drawn  from  English  associations. 
She  is  surprisingly  familiar  with  the  trees  and 


NATURE  OF  THE  COMMUNICATIONS       15 

flowers,  the  birds  and  beasts  of  England.  She 
knows  the  manners  and  customs  of  its  people 
as  they  were  two  or  three  centuries  ago,  the 
people  of  the  fields  or  the  people  of  the 
palace.  Her  speech  is  filled  with  references  to 
the  furniture,  utensils  and  mechanical  contriv- 
ances of  the  household  of  that  time,  and  to 
its  articles  of  dress,  musical  instruments,  and 
tools  of  agriculture  and  the  mechanical  arts. 
There  are  also  a  few  indications  of  a  knowl- 
edge of  New  England  life.  Yet  she  has  never 
admitted  a  residence  in  England  or  New  Eng- 
land, has  never  spoken  of  a  birthplace  or  an 
abiding  place  anywhere,  has  never,  in  fact, 
used  a  single  geographical  proper  name  in  re- 
lation to  herself. 

The  communications  of  Patience  Worth 
come  in  a  variety  of  forms :  Conversation  that 
is  strewn  with  wit  and  wisdom,  epigrams  and 
maxims ;  poems  by  the  hundred ;  parables  and 
allegories;  stories  of  a  semi-dramatic  char- 
acter, and  dramas. 

Here  is  an  example  of  her  conversation  from 


16  PATIENCE  WORTH 

one  of  the  early  records — an  evening  when  a 
skeptical  friend,  a  young  physician,  somewhat 
disposed  to  the  use  of  slang,  was  present  with 
his  wife. 

As  the  ladies  took  the  board,  the  doctor  re- 
marked: 

"  I  hope  Patience  Worth  will  come.  I'd  like 
to  find  out  what  her  game  is." 

Patience  was  there  and  instantly  responded : 

"  Dost,  then,  desire  the  plucking  of  another 
goose?" 

Doctor. — "  By  George,  she's  right  there  with 
the  grease,  isn't  she? " 

Patience. — "  Enough  to  baste  the  last  upon 
the  spit." 

Doctor. — "  Well,  that's  quick  wit  for  you. 
Pretty  hard  to  catch  her." 

Patience. — "  The  salt  of  today  will  not  serve 
to  catch  the  bird  of  tomorrow." 

Doctor.—"  She'd  better  call  herself  the  bird 
of  yesterday.  I  wonder  what  kind  of  a  mind 
she  had,  anyway." 

Patience. — "  Dost  crave  to  taste  the  sauce? " 

Doctor. — "  She  holds  to  her  simile  of  the 


NATURE  OF  THE  COMMUNICATIONS      17 

goose.  I  wish  you'd  ask  her  how  she  makes 
that  little  table  move  under  your  hands  to 
spell  the  words." 

Patience. — "  A  wise  cook  telleth  not  the 
brew." 

Doctor. — "  Turn  that  board  over  and  let  me 
see  what's  under  it." 

This  was  done,  and  after  his  inspection  it 
was  reversed. 

Patience. — "  Thee'lt  bump  thy  nose  to  look 
within  the  hopper." 

Doctor. — "  Whew!  She  doesn't  mind  hand- 
ing you  one,  does  she?  " 

Mrs.  Pollard.—"  That's  Patience's  way. 
She  doesn't  think  we  count  for  anything." 

Patience. — "  The  bell-cow  doth  deem  the 
good  folk  go  to  Sabboth  house  from  the  ring- 
ing of  her  bell." 

Doctor. — "  She  evidently  thinks  we  are  a 
conceited  lot.  Well,  I  believe  she'll  agree  with 
me  that  you  can't  get  far  in  this  world  without 
a  fair  opinion  of  yourself." 

Patience. — "  So  the  donkey  loveth  his 
bray!" 


18  PATIENCE  WORTH 

The  Doctor's  Wife. — "  You  can  draw  her 
on  all  you  please.  I'm  going  to  keep  perfectly 
still." 

Patience. — "  Oh,  e'en  the  mouse  will  have  a 
nibble." 

Mrs.  Curran. — "  There!  She  isn't  going  to 
let  you  off  without  a  little  roast.  I  wonder 
what  she  has  to  say  to  you." 

Patience. — "  Did'st  ever  see  the  brood  hen 
puff  up  with  self-esteem  when  all  her  chicks 
go  for  a  swim?" 

Doctor. — "  Let's  analyze  that  and  see  if 
there's  anything  in  it." 

Patience. — "  Strain  the  potion.  Mayhap 
thou  wilt  find  a  fly." 

This  will  be  sufficient  to  illustrate  Patience's 
form  of  speech  and  her  ready  wit.  It  also 
shows  something  of  the  character  of  the  people 
to  whom  and  through  whom  she  has  usually 
spoken.  They  are  not  solemn  investigators  nor 
"  pussy-footed  "  charlatans.  There  is  no  cere- 
mony about  the  sitting,  no  dimmed  lights,  no 
compelled  silences,  no  mummeries  of  any  sort. 


NATURE  OF  THE  COMMUNICATIONS       19 

The  assistance  is  of  the  ordinary,  fun-loving, 
somewhat  irreverent  American  type.  The 
board  is  brought  into  the  living-room  under  the 
full  glare  of  the  electric  lamps.  The  men 
perhaps  smoke  their  cigars.  If  Patience 
seems  to  be  in  the  humor  for  conversation,  all 
may  take  part,  and  she  hurls  her  javelins  im- 
partially. A  visitor  is  at  once  brought  within 
the  umbra  of  her  wit. 

Her  conversation,  as  already  indicated,  is 
filled  with  epigrams  and  maxims.  A  book 
could  be  made  from  these  alone.  They  are, 
of  course,  not  always  original.  What  maxims 
are?  But  they  are  given  on  the  instant,  with- 
out possibility  of  previous  thought,  and  are 
always  to  the  point.  Here  are  a  few  of  these 
prompt  aphorisms: 

"  A  lollypop  is  but  a  breeder  of  pain." 
"  An  old  goose  gobbles  the  grain  like  a 
gosling." 

"Dead  resolves  are  sorry  fare." 

"  The  goose  knoweth  where  the  bin  leaketh." 

"  Quills  of  sages  were  plucked  from  geese/' 


80  PATIENCE  WORTH 

"  Puddings  fit  for  lords  would  sour  the  belly 
of  the  swineboy." 

"  To  clap  the  cover  on  a  steaming  pot  of 
herbs  will  but  modify*  the  stench." 

"  She  who  quacketh  loudest  deems  the  gan- 
der not  the  lead  at  waddling  time." 

"  Climb  not  the  stars  to  find  a  pebble." 

"  He  who  hath  a  house,  a  hearth  and  a  friend 
hath  a  lucky  lot." 

She  is  often  caustic  and  incisive. 

"  A  man  loveth  his  wife,  but,  ah,  the  buckles 
on  his  knee  breeks!  " 

"  Should  I  present  thee  with  a  pumpkin, 
wouldst  thou  desire  to  count  the  seeds?  " 

"  A  drink  of  asses'  milk  would  nurture  the 
swine,  but  wouldst  thou  then  expect  his  song 
to  change  from  Want,  Want,  Want?  " 

"  Some  folk,  like  the  bell  without  a  clapper, 
go  clanging  on  in  good  faith,  believing  the  good 
folk  can  hear  them." 

"  Were  I  to  tell  thee  the  pudding  string 

*  A  word  of  this  degree  of  latinity  is  very  rare  with  her. 


NATURE  OF  THE  COMMUNICATIONS       21 

were  a  spinet's  string,  thou  wouldst  make 
ready  for  the  dance." 

"  Thee'lt  tie  thy  God  within  thy  kerchief, 
else  have  none  of  Him,  and  like  unto  a  bat, 
hang  thyself  topsy-turvy  to  better  view  His 
handiwork." 

"  'Twould  pleg  thee  sore  should  thy  shadow 
wear  cap  and  bells." 

"  From  constant  wishing  the  moon  may  tip 
for  thee." 

'  Wouldst  thou  have  a  daisy  blossom  upon 
a  thistle?" 

6  Ye  who  carry  pigskins  to  the  well  and  lace 
not  the  hole  are  a  tiresome  lot." 

"  He  who  eateth  a  bannock  well  made  flat- 
tereth  himself  should  his  belly  not  sour." 

Aside  from  the  dramatic  compositions,  som£ 
of  which  are  of  great  length,  most  of  the  com- 
munications received  from  Patience  have  been 
in  verse.  There  is  rarely  a  rhyme,  practically 
all  being  iambic  blank  verse  in  lines  of  irregu- 
lar length.  The  rhythm  is  almost  uniformly 
smooth.  At  some  sittings  the  poetry  begins 


%2  PATIENCE  WORTH 

to  come  as  soon  as  the  hands  are  placed  upon 
the  planchette,  and  the  evening  is  given  over  to 
the  production  of  verse.  At  others,  verses  are 
mingled  with  repartee  and  epigram,  but  sel- 
dom is  an  evening  spent  without  at  least  one 
poem  coming.  This  was  not  the  case  in  the 
earlier  months,  when  many  sittings  were  given 
up  wholly  to  conversation.  The  poetry  has 
gradually  increased  in  volume,  as  if  the  earlier 
efforts  of  the  influence  had  been  tentative, 
while  the  responsiveness  of  the  intermediary 
was  being  tested.  So,  too,  the  earlier  verses 
were  fragments. 

A  blighted  bud  may  hold 
A  sweeter  message  than  the  loveliest  flower. 
For  God  hath  kissed  her  wounded  heart 
And  left  a  promise  there. 

A  cloak  of  lies  may  clothe  a  golden  truth. 
The  sunlight's  warmth  may  fade  its  glossy  black 
To  whitening  green  and  prove  the  fault 
*  Of  weak  and  shoddy  dye. 

Oh,  why  let  sorrow  steel  thy  heart? 
Thy  busom  is  but  its  foster  mother, 


NATURE  OF  THE  COMMUNICATIONS      M 

The  world  its  cradle,  and  the  loving  home 
Its  grave. 

Weave  sorrow  on  the  loom  of  love 
And  warp  the  loom  with  faith. 

Such  fragments,  however,  were  but  steps 
leading  to  larger  things.  A  little  later  on  this 
came: 

So  thou  hast  trod  among  the  tansey  tuft 

And  murr  and  thyme,  and  gathered  all  the  garden's 

store, 

And  glutted  on  the  lillie's  sensuous  sweet, 
And  let  thy  shade  to  mar  the  sunny  path, 
And  only  paused  to  strike  the  slender  humming  bird, 
Whose  molten-tinted  wing  but  spoke  the  song 
Of  fluttering  joy,  and  in  thy  very  hand 
Turned  to  motley  gray.    Then  thinkest  thou 
To  build  the  garden  back  by  trickery  ? 

And  then,  some  six  months  after  her  first 
visit,  came  the  poem  which  follows,  and  which 
may  be  considered  the  real  beginning  of  her 
larger  works : 

Long  lines  of  leaden  cloud;  a  purple  sea; 
White  gulls  skimming  across  the  spray. 


24  PATIENCE  WORTH 

Oh  dissonant  cry !    Art  thou 
The  death  cry  of  desire? 

Ah,  wail,  ye  winds, 

And  search  ye  for  my  dearest  wish 

Along  the  nigged  coast,  and  down 

Where  purling  waters  whisper 

To  the  rosy  coral  reef. 

Ah,  search !     Ah,  search ! 

And  when  ye  return,  bring  ye  the  answering. 

Do  I  stand  and  call  unto  the  sea  for  answer? 

Ah,  wisdom,  where  art  thou? 

A  gull  but  shows  thee  to  the  Southland, 

And  leaden  sky  but  warneth  thee  of  storm. 

And  wind,  thou  art  but  a  changeling. 

So,  shall  I  call  to  thee?    Not  so. 

I  build  not  upon  the  spray, 

And  seek  not  within  the  smaller  world, 

For  God  dwelleth  not  abroad,  but  deep  within. 

There  is  spiritual  significance,  more  or  less 
profound,  in  nearly  all  of  the  poems.  Some 
of  the  lines  are  obscure,  but  study  reveals  a 
meaning,  and  the  more  I,  at  least,  study  them, 
the  more  I  have  been  impressed  with  the  in- 
tellectual power  behind  them.  It  is  this  that 


NATURE  OF  THE  COMMUNICATIONS      25 

makes  these  communications  seem  to  stand 
alone  among  the  numerous  messages  that 
are  alleged  to  have  come  from  "  that  undis- 
covered country." 

An  intense  love  of  nature  is  expressed  in 
most  of  the  communications,  whether  in  prose 
or  verse,  and  also  a  wide  knowledge  of 
nature— not  the  knowledge  of  the  scientist,  but 
that  of  the  poet. 

All  silver-laced  with  ,web  and  crystal-studded,  hangs 

A  golden  lily  cup,  as  airy  as  a  dancing  sprite. 

The  moon  hath  caught  a  fleeting  cloud,  and  rests  in 

her  embrace. 

The  bumblefly  still  hovers  o'er  the  clover  flower, 
And  mimics  all  the  zephyr's  song.    White  butterflies, 
Whose  wings  bespeak  late  wooing  of  the  buttercup, 
Wend  home  their  way,  the  gold  still  clinging  to  their 

snowy  gossamer. 

E'en  the  toad,  who  old  and  moss-grown  seems, 
Is  wabbled  on  a  lilypad,  and  watches  for  the  moon 
To  bid  the  cloud  adieu  and  light  him  to  his  hunt 
For  fickle  marsh  flies  who  tease  him  through  the  day. 
Why,  every  rose  has  loosed  her  petals, 
And  sends  a  pleading  perfume  to  the  moss 
That  creeps  upon  the  maple's  stalk,  to  tempt  it  hence 


26  PATIENCE  WORTH 

To  bear  a  cooling  draught.    Round  yonder  trunk 

The  ivy  clings  and  loves  it  into  green. 

The  pansy  dreams  of  coaxing  goldenrod 

To  change  her  station,  lest  her  modest  flower 

Be  ever  doomed  to  blossom  'neath  the  shadow  of  the 

wall. 

And  was  not  He  who  touched  the  pansy 
With  His  regal  robes  and  left  their  color  there, 
All-wise  to  leave  her  modesty  as  her  greatest  charm? 
Here  snowdrops  blossom  'neath  a  fringe  of  tuft, 
And  fatty  grubs  find  rest  amid  the  mold. 
All  love,  and  Love  himself,  is  here, 
For  every  garden  is  fashioned  by  his  hand. 
Are  then  the  garden's  treasures  more  of  worth 
Than  ugly  toad  or  mold?     Not  so,  for  Love 
May  tint  the  zincy  blue-gray  murk 
Of  curdling  fall  to  crimson,  light-flashed  summertide. 
Ah,  why  then  question  Love,  I  prithee,  friend? 

This  is  poetry,  but  there  is  something  more 
than  liquid  sweetness  in  its  lines.  There  is  a 
truth.  Deeper  wisdom  and  a  lore  more  pro- 
found and  more  mystical  are  revealed  or  deli- 
cately concealed  in  some  of  the  others. 

I  searched  among  the  hills  to  find  His  love, 
And  found  but  waving  trees,  and  stones 


NATURE  OF  THE  COMMUNICATIONS      27 

Where  lizards  flaunt  their  green  and  slip  to  cool 

Adown  the  moss.     I  searched  within  the  field 

To  find  His  treasure-trove,  and  found  but  tasseled 

stalk 

And  baby  grain,  encradled  in  a  silky  nest. 
I  searched  deep  in  the  rose's  heart  to  find 
His  pledge  to  me,  and  steeped  in  honey,  it  was  there. 
Lo,  while  I  wait,  a  vagabond  with  goss'mer  wing 
Hath  stripped  her  of  her  loot  and  borne  it  all  to  me. 
I  searched  along  the  shore  to  find  His  heart, 
Ahope  the  lazy  waves  would  bear  it  me ; 
And  watched  them  creep  to  rest  upon  the  sands, 
Who  sent  them  back  again,  asearch  for  me. 
I  sought  amid  a  tempest  for  His  strength, 
And  found  it  in  its  shrieking  glee ; 
And  saw  man's  paltry  blocks  come  crashing  down, 
And  heard  the  wailing  of  the  trees  who  grew 
Afeared,  and,  moaning,  caused  the  flowers  to  quake 
And  tremble  lest  the  sun  forget  them  at  the  dawn ; 
While  bolts  shot  clouds  asunder,  and  e'en  the  sea 
Was  panting  with  the  spending  of  his  might. 
I  searched  within  a  wayside  cot  for  His  white  soul, 
And  found  a  dimple  next  the  lips  of  one  who  slept, 
And  watched  the  curtained  wonder  of  her  eyes, 
Aflutter  o'er  the  iris-colored  pools   that  held  His 

smile :  * 

And  touched  the  warm  and  shrinking  lips,  so  mute, 


28  PATIENCE  WORTH 

And  yet  so  wise.    For  canst  thou  doubt  whose  kiss 
Still  lingers  on  their  bloom? 

Amid  a  muck  of  curse,  and  lie, 
And  sensuous  lust,  and  damning  leers, 
I  searched  for  Good  and  Light, 
And  found  it  there,  aye,  even  there; 
For  broken  reeds  may  house  a  lark's  pure  nest. 
I  stopped  me  at  a  pool  to  rest, 
And  toyed  along  the  brink  to  pluck 
The  cress  who  would  so  guard  her  lips: 
And  flung  a  stone  straight  to  her  heart, 
And,  lo,  but  silver  laughter  mocketh  me ! 
And  as  I  stoop  to  catch  the  plash, 
Pale  sunbeams  pierce  the  bower, 
And  ah,  the  shade  and  laughter  melt 
And  leave  me,  empty,  there. 
But  wait !    I  search  and  find, 
Reflected  in  the  pool,  myself,  the  searcher. 
And,  on  the  silver  surface  traced, 
My  answer  to  it  all. 

For,  heart  of  mine,  who  on  this  journey 
Sought  with  me,  I  knew  thee  not, 
But  searched  for  prayer  and  love  amid  the  rocks 
Whilst  thou  but  now  declare  thyself  to  me. 
Ah,  could  I  deem  thee  strong  and  fitting 
As  the  tempest  to  depict  His  strength; 
Or  yet  as  gentle  as  the  smile  of  baby  lips, 


NATURE  OF  THE  COMMUNICATIONS      29 

Or  sweet  as  honeyed  rose  or  pure  as  mountain  pool? 
And  yet  thou  art,  and  thou  art  mine — 
A  gift  and  answer  from  my  God. 

It  is  not  my  purpose  to  attempt  an  extended 
interpretation  of  the  metaphysics  of  these 
poems.  This  one  will  repay  real  study.  No 
doubt  there  will  be  varied  views  of  its  meaning. 

These  poems  do  not  all  move  with  the  mur- 
muring ripple  of  running  brooks.  Some  of 
them,  appalling  in  the  rugged  strength  of  their 
figures  of  speech,  are  like  the  storm  waves 
smashing  their  sides  against  the  cliffs.  In  my 
opinion  there  are  not  very  many  in  literature 
that  grip  the  mind  with  greater  force  than  the 

first  two  lines  of  the  brief  one  which  follows, 

« 

and  there  are  few  things  more  beautiful  than 
its  conclusion: 

Ah,  God,  I  have  drunk  unto  the  dregs, 

And  flung  the  cup  at  Thee! 

The  dust  of  crumbled  righteousness 

Hath  dried  and  soaked  unto  itself 

E'en  the  drop  I  spilled  to  Bacchus, 

Whilst  Thou,  all-patient, 

Sendest  purple  vintage  for  a  later  harvest. 


30  PATIENCE  WORTH 

The  poems  sometimes  contain  irony,  gentle 
as  a  summer  zephyr  or  crushing  as  a  mailed 
fist.  For  instance  this  challenge  to  the  vain- 
glorious: 

Strike  ye  the  sword  or  dip  ye  in  an  inken  well; 

Smear  ye  a  gaudy  color  or  daub  ye  the  clay? 

Aye,  beat  upon  thy  busom  then  and  cry, 

"  'Tis  mine,  this  world-love  and  vainglory !  " 

Ah,  master-hand,  who  guided  thee?     Stay! 

Dost  know  that  through  the  ages, 

Yea,  through  the  very  ages, 

One  grain  of  hero  dust,  blown  from  afar, 

Hath  lodged,  and  moveth  thee? 

Wait.     Wreathe  thyself  and  wait. 

The  green  shall  deepen  to  an  ashen  brown 

And  crumble  then  and  fall  into  thy  sightless  eyes, 

While  thy  moldering  flesh  droppeth  awry. 

Wait,  and  catch  thy  dust. 

Mayhap  thou  canst  build  it  back ! 

She  touches  all  the  strings  of  human  emo- 
tion, and  frequently  thrums  the  note  of  sorrow, 
usually,  however,  as  an  overture  to  a  paean  of 
joy.  The  somber  tones  in  her  pictures, 
to  use  another  metaphor,  are  used  mainly  to 


NATURE  OF  THE  COMMUNICATIONS      SI 

strengthen  the  high  lights.  But  now  and  then 
there  comes  a  verse  of  sadness  such  as  this  one, 
which  yet  is  not  wholly  sad: 

Ah,  wake  me  not ! 

For  should  my  dreaming  work  a  spell  to  soothe 
My  troubled  soul,  wouldst  thou  deny  me  dreams  ? 

Ah,  wake  me  not ! 

If  'mong  the  leaves  wherein  the  shadows  lurk 
I  fancy  conjured  faces  of  my  loved,  long  lost; 
And  if  the  clouds  to  me  are  sorrow's  shroud; 
And  if  I  trick  my  sorrow,  then,  to  hide 
Beneath  a  smile ;  or  build  of  wasted  words 
A  key  to  wisdom's  door — -wouldst  thou  deny  me? 

Ah,  let  me  dream! 
The  day  may  bring  fresh  sorrows, 
But  the  night  will  bring  new  dreams. 

When  this  was  spelled  upon  the  board,  its 
pathos  affected  Mrs.  Curran  to  tears,  and,  to 
comfort  her,  Patience  quickly  applied  an  anti- 
dote in  the  following  jingle,  which  illustrates 
not  only  her  versatility,  but  her  sense  of 
humor: 

Patter,  patter,  briney  drops, 
On  my  kerchief  drying: 


38  PATIENCE  WORTH 

Spatter,  spatter,  salty  stream, 
Down  my  poor  cheeks  flying. 
Brine  enough  to  'merse  a  ham, 
Salt  enough  to  build  a  dam! 
Trickle,  trickle,  all  ye  can 
And  wet  my  dry  heart's  aching. 
Sop  and  sop,  'tis  better  so, 
For  in  dry  soil  flowers  ne'er  grow. 

This  little  jingle  answered  its  purpose. 
Mrs.  Curran's  tears  continued  to  fall,  but  they 
were  tears  of  laughter,  and  all  of  the  little 
party  about  the  board  were  put  in  good  spirits. 
Then  Patience  dryly  remarked: 

'  Two  singers  there  be;  he  who  should  sing 
like  a  troubadour  and  brayeth  like  an  ass,  and 
he  who  should  bray  that  singeth." 

These  examples  will  serve  to  illustrate  the 
nature  of  the  communications,  and  as  an  intro- 
duction to  the  numerous  compositions  that  will 
be  presented  in  the  course  of  this  narrative. 

The  question  now  arises,  or,  more  likely,  it 
has  been  in  the  reader's  mind  since  the  book  was 
opened:  What  evidence  is  there  of  their  gen- 


NATURE  OF  THE  COMMUNICATIONS      33 

uineness?  Does  Mrs.  Curran,  consciously  or 
subconsciously,  produce  this  matter?  It  is 
hardly  credible  that  anyone  able  to  write  such 
poems  would  bother  with  a  ouija  board  to 
do  it. 

It  will  probably  be  quite  evident  to  a 
reader  of  the  whole  matter  that  whoever  or 
whatever  it  is  that  writes  this  poetry  and 
prose,  possesses,  as  already  intimated,  not  only 
an  unusual  mind,  but  an  unusual  knowledge  of 
archaic  forms  of  English,  a  close  acquaintance 
with  nature  as  it  is  found  in  England,  and  a 
familiarity  with  the  manners  and  customs  of 
English  life  of  an  older  time.  Many  of  the 
words  used  in  the  later  compositions,  par- 
ticularly those  of  a  dramatic  nature,  are 
obscure  dialectal  forms  not  to  be  found  in  any 
work  of  literature.  All  of  the  birds  and  flow- 
ers and  trees  referred  to  in  the  communica- 
tions are  native  to  England,  with  the  few  ex- 
ceptions that  indicate  some  knowledge  of  New 
England.  No  one  not  growing  up  with  the 
language  used  could  have  acquired  facility  in 
it  without  years  of  patient  study.  No  one 


34-  PATIENCE  WORTH 

could  become  so  familiar  with  English  nature 
without  long  residence  in  England:  for  the 
knowledge  revealed  is  not  of  the  character  that 
can  be  obtained  from  books.  Mrs.  Curran  has 
had  none  of  these  experiences.  She  has  never 
been  in  England.  Her  studies  since  leaving 
school  have  been  confined  to  music,  to  which 
art  she  is  passionately  attached,  and  in  which 
she  is  adept.  She  has  never  been  a  student  of 
literature,  ancient  or  modern,  and  has  never 
attempted  any  form  of  literary  work.  She 
has  had  no  particular  interest  in  English  his- 
tory, English  literature  or  English  life. 

But,  it  may  be  urged,  this  matter  might  be 
produced  subconsciously,  from  Mrs.  Curran's 
mind  or  from  the  mind  of  some  person  asso- 
ciated with  her.  The  phenomena  of  subcon- 
sciousness  are  many  and  varied,  and  the  word 
is  used  to  indicate,  but  does  not  explain,  nu- 
merous mysteries  of  the  mind  which  seem 
wholly  baffling  despite  this  verbal  hitching 
post.  But  I  have  no  desire  to  enter  into  an 
argument.  My  sole  purpose  is  so  to  present 
the  facts  that  the  reader  may  intelligently  form 


NATURE  OF  THE  COMMUNICATIONS      35 

his  own  opinion.   Here  are  the  facts  that  relate 
to  this  phase  of  the  subject: 

Mrs.  Curran  does  not  go  into  a  trance  when 
the  communications  are  received.  On  the  con- 
trary, her  mind  is  absolutely  normal,  and  she 
may  talk  to  others  while  the  board  is  in  opera- 
tion under  her  hands.  It  is  unaffected  by  con- 
versation in  the  room.  There  is  no  effort  at 
mental  concentration.  Aside  from  Mrs.  Cur- 
ran,  it  does  not  matter  who  is  present,  or 
who  sits  at  the  board  with  her;  there  are  sel- 
dom the  same  persons  at  any  two  successive 
sittings.  Yet  the  personality  of  Patience  is 
constant  and  unvarying.  As  to  subconscious 
action  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Curran,  it  would 
seem  to  be  sufficient  to  say  that  no  one  can 
impart  knowledge  subconsciously,  unless  it 
has  been  first  acquired  through  the  media  of 
consciousness;  that  is  to  say,  through  the 
senses.  No  one,  for  example,  who  had  never 
seen  or  heard  a  word  of  Chinese,  could  speak 
the  language  subconsciously.  One  may  uncon- 
sciously acquire  information,  but  it  must  be 
through  the  senses. 


36  PATIENCE  WORTH 

It  remains  but  to  add  that  the  reputation 
and  social  position  of  the  Currans  puts  them 
above  the  suspicion  of  fraud,  if  fraud  were  at 
all  possible  in  such  a  matter  as  this ;  that  Mrs. 
Curran  does  not  give  public  exhibitions,  nor 
private  exhil  itions  for  pay;  that  the  composi- 
tions have  been  received  in  the  presence  of  their 
friends,  or  of  friends  of  their  friends,  all  spe- 
cially invited  guests.  There  seems  r  othing  ab- 
normal about  her.  She  is  an  intelligent,  con- 
scientious woman,  a  member  of  the  Episco- 
palian church,  but  not  especially  zealous  in 
affairs  of  religion,  a  talented  musician,  a  clever 
and  witty  conversationalist,  and  a  charming 
hostess.  These  facts  are  stated  not  as  gratui- 
tous compliments,  but  as  evidences  of  character 
and  temperament  which  have  a  bearing  upon 
the  question. 


PERSONALITY  OF  PATIENCE 

"  Yea,  I  be  me."      v 

PATIENCE,  as  I  have  said,  has  given  very 
little  information  about  herself,  and  every  ef- 
fort to  pin  her  to  a  definite  time  or  locality 
has  been  without  avail.  When  she  first  intro- 
duced herself  to  Mrs.  Curran,  she  was  asked 
where  she  came  from,  and  she  replied,  "  Across 
the  sea."  Asked  when  she  lived,  the  pointer 
groped  among  the  figures  as  if  struggling  with 
memory,  and  finally,  with  much  hesitation 
upon  each  digit,  gave  the  date  1649.  This 
seemed  to  be  so  in  accord  with  her  language, 
and  the  articles  of  dress  and  household  use  to 
which  she  referred,  that  it  was  accepted  as  a 
date  that  had  some  relation  to  her  material 
existence.  But  Patience  has  since  made  it 
quite  plain  that  she  is  not  to  be  tied  to  any 
period. 

37 


38  PATIENCE  WORTH 

"  I  be  like  to  the  wind,"  she  says,  "  and 
yea,  like  to  it  do  blow  me  ever,  yea,  since 
time.  Do  ye  to  tether  me  unto  today  I 
blow  me  then  tomorrow,  and  do  ye  to 
tether  me  unto  tomorrow  I  blow  me  then 
today." 

Indeed,  she  at  times  seems  to  take  a  mis- 
chievous delight  in  baffling  the  seeker  after 
personal  information ;  and  at  other  times,  when 
she  has  a  composition  in  hand,  she  expresses 
sharp  displeasure  at  such  inquiries.  As  this 
is  not  a  speculative  work,  but  a  narrative,  the 
attempt  to  fix  a  time  and  place  for  her  will  be 
left  to  those  who  may  find  interest  in  the  task. 
All  that  can  be  said  with  definiteness  is  that 
she  brings  the  speech  and  the  atmosphere,  as 
it  were,  of  an  age  or  ages  long  past ;  that  she 
is  thoroughly  English,  and  that  while  she  can 
and  does  project  herself  back  into  the  mists 
of  time,  and  speak  of  early  medieval  scenes  as 
familiarly  as  of  the  English  renaissance,  she 
does  not  make  use  of  any  knowledge  she  may 
possess  of  modern  developments  or  modern 
conditions.  And  yet,  archaic  in  word  and 


PERSONALITY  OF  PATIENCE          39 

form  as  her  compositions  are,  there  is  some- 
thing very  modern  in  her  way  of  thought  and 
in  her  attitude  toward  nature.  An  eminent 
philologist  asked  her  how  it  was  that  she  used 
the  language  of  so  many  different  periods,  and 
she  replied:  "  I  do  plod  a  twist  of  a  path  and 
it  hath  run  from  then  till  now."  And  when 
he  said  that  in  her  poetry  there  seemed  to  be 
echoes  or  intangible  suggestions  of  compara- 
tively recent  poets,  and  asked  her  to  explain, 
she  said:  "  There  be  aneath  the  every  stone  a 
hidden  voice.  I  but  loose  the  stone  and  lo,  the 
voice ! " 

But  while  the  archaic  form  of  her  speech  and 
writings  is  an  evidence  of  her  genuineness,  and 
she  so  considers  it,  she  does  not  approve  of  its 
analysis  as  a  philological  amusement.  "  I  brew 
and  fashion  feasts,"  she  says,  "  and  lo,  do  ye 
to  tear  asunder,  thee  wouldst  have  but  grain 
dust  and  unfit  to  eat.  I  put  not  meaning  to 
the  tale,  but  source  thereof."  That  is  to  say, 
she  does  not  wish  to  be  measured  by  the  form 
of  her  words,  but  by  the  thoughts  they  convey 
and  the  source  from  which  they  come.  And 


40  PATIENCE  WORTH 

she  has  put  this  admonition  into  strong  and 
striking  phrases. 

"  Put  ye  a  value  'pon  word?  And  weigh  ye 
the  line  to  measure,  then,  the  gift  o'  Him  'pon 
rod  afashioned  out  by  man? 

"  I  tell  thee,  He  hath  spoke  from  out  the 
lowliest,  and  man  did  put  to  measure,  and  lo, 
the  lips  astop! 

"And  He  doth  speak  anew;  yea,  and  He 
hath  spoke  from  out  the  mighty,  and  man  doth 
whine  o'  track  ashow  'pon  path  he  knoweth  not 
— and  lo,  the  mighty  be  astopped! 

"  Yea,  and  He  ashoweth  wonders,  and  man 
findeth  him  a  rule,  and  lo,  the  wonder  shrink- 
eth,  and  but  the  rule  remaineth! 

"  Yea,  the  days  do  rock  with  word  o'  Him, 
and  man  doth  look  but  to  the  rod,  and  lo,  the 
word  o'  Him  asinketh  to  a  whispering,  to  die. 

"  And  yet,  in  patience,  He  seeketh  new  days 
to  speak  to  thee.  And  thou  ne'er  shalt  see  His 
working.  Nay ! 

"  Look  ye  unto  the  seed  o'  the  olive  tree, 
aplanted.  Doth  the  master,  at  its  first  burst 
athrough  the  sod,  set  up  a  rule  and  murmur 


PERSONALITY  OF  PATIENCE          41 

him,  *  'Tis  ne'er  an  olive  tree!  It  hath  but  a 
pulp  stem  and  winged  leaves? '  Nay,  he  let- 
teth  it  to  grow,  and  nurtureth  it  thro'  days,  and 
lo,  at  finish,  there  astandeth  the  olive  tree! 

*  Ye'd  uproot  the  very  seed  in  quest  o'  root! 
I  bid  thee  nurture  o'  its  day  astead. 

"  I  tell  thee  more :  He  speaketh  not  by  line 
or  word;  Nay,  by  love  and  giving. 

"  Do  ye  also  this,  in  His  name." 

But,  aside  from  the  meagerness  of  her 
history,  there  is  no  indefiniteness  in  her 
personality,  and  this  clear-cut  and  unmis- 
takable individuality,  quite  different  from 
that  of  Mrs.  Curran,  is  as  strong  an  evi- 
dence of  her  genuineness  as  is  the  unique- 
ness of  her  literary  productions.  To  speak 
of  something  which  cannot  be  seen  nor  heard 
nor  felt  as  a  personality,  would  seem  to  be  a 
misuse  of  the  word,  and  yet  personality  is  much 
more  a  matter  of  mental  than  of  physical  char- 
acteristics. The  tongue  and  the  eyes  are 
merely  instruments  by  means  of  which  per- 
sonality is  revealed.  The  personality  of  Pa- 


42  PATIENCE  WORTH 

tience  Worth  is  manifested  through  the  instru- 
mentality of  a  ouija  board,  and  her  striking 
individuality  is  thereby  as  vividly  expressed  as 
if  she  were  present  in  the  flesh.  Indeed,  it 
requires  no  effort  of  the  imagination  to  visual- 
ize her.  Whatever  she  may  be,  she  is  at  hand. 
Nor  does  she  have  to  be  solicited.  The  moment 
the  fingers  are  on  the  board  she  takes  com- 
mand. She  seems  fairly  to  jump  at  the  oppor- 
tunity to  express  herself. 

And  she  is  essentially  feminine.  There  are 
indubitable  evidences  of  feminine  tastes,  emo- 
tions, habits  of  thought,  and  knowledge.  She 
is,  for  example,  profoundly  versed  in  the  meth- 
ods of  housekeeping  of  two  centuries  or  more 
ago.  She  is  familiar  with  all  the  domestic  ma- 
chinery and  utensils  of  that  olden  time — the 
operation  of  the  loom  and  the  spinning  wheel, 
the  art  of  cooking  at  an  open  hearth,  the  sand- 
ing of  floors ;  and  this  homely  knowledge  is  the 
essence  of  many  of  her  proverbs  and  epi- 
grams. 

"  A  good  wife,"  she  says,  "  keepeth  the  floor 
well  sanded  and  rushes  in  plenty  to  burn.  The 


PERSONALITY  OF  PATIENCE  43 

pewter  should  reflect  the  fire's  bright  glow; 
but  in  thy  day  housewifery  is  a  sorry  trade." 

At  another  time  she  opened  the  evening 
thus: 

"  I  have  brought  me  some  barley  corn  and 
a  porridge  pot.  May  I  then  sup  ?  " 

And  the  same  evening  she  said  to  Mrs.  Pol- 
lard: 

"  Thee'lt  ever  stuff  the  pot  and  wash  the 
dishcloth  in  thine  own  way.  Alackaday!  Go 
brush  thy  hearth.  Set  pot  aboiling.  Thee'lt 
cook  into  the  brew  a  stuff  that  tasteth  full  well 
unto  thy  guest." 

A  collection  of  maxims  for  housekeepers 
might  be  made  from  the  flashes  of  Patience's 
conversation.  For  example : 

'  Too  much  sweet  may  spoil  the  short 
bread." 

'  Weak  yarn  is  not  worth  the  knitting." 

"  A  pound  for  pound  loaf  was  never  known 
to  fail." 

"  A  basting  but  toughens  an  old  goose." 

These  and  many  others  like  them  were  used 
by  her  in  a  figurative  sense,  but  they  reveal  an 


44  PATIENCE  WORTH 

intimate  knowledge  of  the  household  arts  and 
appliances  of  a  forgotten  time.  If  she  knows 
anything  of  stoves  or  ranges,  of  fireless  cook- 
ers, of  refrigerators,  of  any  of  the  thousand 
and  one  utensils  which  are  familiar  to  the 
modern  housewife,  she  has  never  once  let  slip 
a  word  to  betray  such  knowledge. 

At  one  time,  after  she  had  delivered  a  poem, 
the  circle  fell  into  a  discussion  of  its  meaning, 
and  after  a  bit  Patience  declared  they  were 
"  like  treacle  dripping,"  and  added,  "  thee'lt 
find  the  dishcloth  may  make  a  savory  stew." 

"  She's  roasting  us,"  cried  Mrs.  Hutch- 
ings. 

"  Nay,"  said  Patience,  "  boiling  the  pot." 

"  You  don't  understand  our  slang,  Pa- 
tience," Mrs.  Hutchings  explained.  "  Roast- 
ing means  criticising  or  rebuking." 

"  Yea,  basting,"  said  Patience. 

Mrs.  Pollard  remarked:  "I've  heard  my 
mother  say,  '  He  got  a  basting! ' 

"An  up-and-down  turn  to  the  hourglass 
does  to  a  turn,"  Patience  observed  dryly. 

"  I  suppose  she  means,"  said  Mrs.  Hutch- 


PERSONALITY  OF  PATIENCE          45 

ings,  "  that  two  hours  of  basting  or  roasting 
would  make  us  understand." 

"  Would  she  be  likely  to  know  about  hour- 
glasses? "  Mrs.  Curran  asked. 

Patience  answered  the  question. 

"  A  dial  beam  on  a  sorry  day  would  make  a 
muck  o'  basting."  Meaning  that  a  sundial  was 
of  no  use  on  a  cloudy  day. 

But  Patience  is  not  usually  as  patient  with 
lack  of  understanding  as  this  bit  of  conversa- 
tion would  indicate. 

"  I  dress  and  baste  thy^fowl,"  she  said  once, 
"  and  thee  wouldst  have  me  eat  for  thee.  If 
thou  wouldst  build  the  comb,  then  search  thee 
for  the  honey." 

"  Oh,  we  know  we  are  stupid,"  said  one. 
"  We  admit  it." 

"  Saw  drip  would  build  thy  head  and  fill  thy 
crannies,"  Patience  went  on,  "  yet  ye  feel  smug 
in  wisdom." 

And  again:  "  I  card  and  weave,  and  ye  look 
a  painful  lot  should  I  pass  ye  a  bobbin  to 
wind." 


46  PATIENCE  WORTH 

A  request  to  repeat  a  doubtful  line  drew 
forth  this  exclamation:  "  Bother!  I  fain  would 
sew  thy  seam,  not  do  thy  patching." 

At  another  time  she  protested  against  a  dis- 
cussion that  interrupted  the  delivery  of  a 
poem:  "  Who  then  doth  hold  the  distaff  from 
whence  the  thread  doth  wind?  Thou  art  shut- 
tling 'twixt  the  woof-  and  warp  but  to  mar  the 
weaving." 

And  once  she  exclaimed,  "  I  sneeze  on  rust 
o' wits!" 

But  it  must  not  b^understood  that  Patience 
is  bad-tempered.  These  outbreaks  are  quoted 
to  show  one  side  of  her  personality,  and  they 
usually  indicate  impatience  rather  than  anger : 
for,  a  moment  after  such  caustic  exclamations, 
she  is  likely  to  be  talking  quite  genially  or  dic- 
tating the  tenderest  of  poetry.  She  quite 
often,  too,  expresses  affection  for  the  family 
with  which  she  has  associated  herself.  At  one 
time  she  said  to  Mrs.  Curran,  who  had  ex- 
pressed impatience  at  some  cryptic  utterance 
of  the  board : 


PERSONALITY  OF  PATIENCE          47 

"  Ah,  weary,  weary  me,  from  trudging  and 
tracking  o'er  the  long  road  to  thy  heart !  Wilt 
thou,  then,  not  let  me  rest  awhile  therein?  " 

And  again:  "  Should  thee  let  thy  fire  to  em- 
ber I  fain  would  cast  fresh  faggots." 

And  at  another  time  she  said  of  Mrs.  Cur- 
ran:  "  She  doth  boil  and  seethe,  and  brew  and 
taste,  but  I  have  a  loving  for  the  wench." 

But  she  seems  to  think  that  those  with 
whom  she  is  associated  should  take  her  love 
for  granted,  as  home  folks  usually  do,  and  she 
showers  her  most  beautiful  compliments  upon 
the  casual  visitor  who  happens  to  win  her 
favor.  To  one  such  she  said: 

"  The  heart  o'  her  hath  suffered  thorn,  but 
bloomed  a  garland  o'er  the  wounds." 

To  a  lady  who  is  somewhat  deaf  she  paid 
this  charming  tribute: 

"  She  hath  an  ear  upon  her  every  finger's 
tip,  and  'pon  her  eye  a  thousand  flecks  o' 
color  for  to  spread  upon  a  dreary  tale  and 
paint  a  leaden  sky  aflash.  What  need  she  o' 
ears?" 

And  to  another  who,  after  a  time  at  the 


48  PATIENCE  WORTH 

board,  said  she  did  not  want  to  weary  Pa- 
tience: 

"  Weary  then  at  loving  of  a  friend?  Would 
I  then  had  the  garlanded  bloom  o'  love  she 
hath  woven  and  lighted,  I  do  swear,  with 
smiling  washed  brighter  with  her  tears." 

And  again:  "I  be  weaving  of  a  garland. 
Do  leave  me  then  a  bit  to  tie  its  ends.  I 
plucked  but  buds,  and  woe!  they  did  spell  but 
infant's  love.  I  cast  ye,  then,  a  blown  bloom, 
wide  petaled  and  rich  o'  scent.  Take  thou 
and  press  atween  thy  heart  throbs — my  gift.'* 

Of  still  another  she  said:  "  She  be  a  star- 
bloom  blue  that  nestleth  to  the  soft  grasses 
of  the  spring,  but  ah,  the  brightness  cast  to 
him  who  seeketh  field  aweary! " 

And  yet  again:  "  Fields  hath  she  trod 
arugged,  aye,  and  weed  agrown.  Aye,  and 
e'en  now,  where  she  hath  set  abloom  the  blos- 
soms o'  her  very  soul,  weed  aspringeth.  And 
lo,  she  standeth  head  ahigh  and  eye  to  sky 
and  faith  astrong.  And  foot  abruised  still 
troddeth  rugged  field.  But  I  do  promise  ye 
'tis  such  an  faith  that  layeth  low  the  weed 


PERSONALITY  OF  PATIENCE          49 

and  putteth  'pon  the  rugged  path  asmoothe, 
and  yet  but  bloom  shalt  show,  and  ever  shalt 
she  stand,  head  ahigh  and  eye  unto  the  sky." 

Upon  an  evening  after  she  had  showered 
such  compliments  upon  the  ladies  present  she 
exclaimed : 

"  I  be  a  wag  atruth,  and  lo,  my  posey- 
wreath  be  stripped!" 

She  seldom  favors  the  men  in  this  way. 
She  has  referred  to  herself  several  times  as  a 
spinster,  and  this  may  account  for  a  certain 
reluctance  to  saying  complimentary  things  of 
the  other  sex.  "  A  prosy  spinster  may  but 
plash  in  love's  pool,"  she  remarked  once,  and 
at  another  time  she  said :  "  A  wife  shall  brush 
her  goodman's  blacks  and  polish  o'  his  buckles, 
but  a  maid  may  not  dare  e'en  to  blow  the 
trifling  dust  from  his  knickerbockers."  With 
a  few  notable  exceptions,  her  attitude  toward 
men  has  been  expressed  in  sarcasm,  none  the 
less  cutting  to  those  for  whom  she  has  an 
affection  manifested  in  other  ways.  To  one 
such  she  said: 


50  PATIENCE  WORTH 

"  Thee'lt  peg  thy  shoes,  lad,  to  best  their 
wearing,  and  eat  too  freely  of  the  fowl.  Thy 
belly  needeth  pegging  sore,  I  wot." 

"  Patience  doesn't  mean  that  for  me,"  he 
protested. 

"  Nay,"  she  said,  "  the  jackass  ne'er  can 
know  his  reflection  in  the  pool.  He  deemeth 
the  thrush  hath  stolen  of  his  song.  Buy  thee 
a  pushcart.  'Twill  speak  for  thee." 

And  of  this  same  rotund  friend  she  re- 
marked, when  he  laughed  at  something  she 
had  said: 

"He  shaketh  like  a  pot  o'  goose  jell!" 

"  I  back  up,  Patience,"  he  cried. 

"  And  thee'lt  find  the  cart,"  she  said. 

Of  a  visitor,  a  physician,  she  had  this  to 
say: 

"  He  bindeth  and  asmears  and  looketh  at  a 
merry,  and  his  eye  dqth  lie.  How  doth  he 
smite  and  stitch  like  to  a  wench,  and  brew  o'er 
steam!  Yea,  'tis  atwist  he  be.  He  runneth 
whither,  and,  at  a  beconing,  (beckoning) 
yon,  and  ever  thus;  but  'tis  a  blunder-mucker 
he  be.  His  head  like  to  a  steel,  yea,  and 


PERSONALITY  OF  PATIENCE  51 

heart    a    summer's    cloud    athin     (within), 
enough  to  show  athrough  the  clear  o'  blue." 

But  it  is  upon  the  infant  that  Patience  be- 
stows her  tenderest  words.  Her  love  of  child- 
hood is  shown  in  many  lines  of  rare  and  touch- 
ing beauty. 

"  Ye  seek  to  level  unto  her,"  she  said  of  a 
baby  girl  who  was  present  one  evening,  "  but 
thou  art  awry  at  reasoning.  For  he  who  put- 
teth  him  to  babe's  path  doth  track  him  high, 
and  lo,  the  path  leadeth  unto  the  Door.  Yea, 
and  doth  she  knock,  it  doth  ope. 

"  Cast  ye  wide  thy  soul's  doors  and  set 
within  such  love.  For,  brother,  I  do  tell  thee 
that  though  the  soul  o'  ye  be  torn,  aye,  and 
scarred,  'tis  such  an  love  that  doth  heal.  The 
love  o'  babe  be  the  balm  o'  earth. 

"  See  ye!  The  sun  tarrieth  'bout  the  lips  o' 
her;  aye,  and  though  the  hand  be  but  thy  fin- 
ger's span,  'tis  o'  a  weight  to  tear  away  thy 
heart." 

And  upon  another  occasion  she  revealed 
something  of  herself  in  these  words : 


58  PATIENCE  WORTH 

Know  ye;  in  my  heart's  mansion 

There  be  apart  a  place 

Wherein  I  treasure  my  God's  gifts. 

Think  ye  to  peer  therein?    Nay. 

And  should  thee  by  a  chance 

To  catch  a  stolen  glimpse, 

Thee'dst  laugh  amerry,  for  hord  (hoard) 

Would  show  but  dross  to  thee : 

A  friend's  regard,  ashrunked  and  turned 

To  naught — but  one  bright  memory  is  there; 

A  hope — now  dead,  but  showeth  gold  hid  there; 

A  host  o'  nothings — dreams,  hopes,  fears ; 

Love  throbs  afluttered  hence 

Since  first  touch  o'  baby  hands 

Caressed  my  heart's  store  ahidden. 

Returning  to  the  femininity  of  Patience,  it  is 
also  shown  in  her  frequent  references  to  dress. 
Upon  an  evening  when  the  publication  of  her 
poems. had  been  under  discussion,  when  next 
the  board  was  taken  up  she  let  them  know  that 
she  had  heard,  in  this  manner: 

"  My  pettieskirt  hath  a  scallop,"  she  said. 
"  Mayhap  that  will  help  thy  history." 

"  Oh,"  cried  Mrs.  Curran,  "  we  are  discov- 
ered!" 


PERSONALITY  OF  PATIENCE  53 

'  Yea,"  laughed  Patience — she  must  have 
laughed,  "  and  tell  thou  of  my  buckled  boots 
and  add  a  cap-string." 

Further  illustrative  of  her  feminine  char- 
acteristics and  of  her  interest  in  dress,  as  well 
as  of  a  certain  fun-loving  spirit  which  now 
and  then  seems  to  sway  her,  is  this  record  of  a 
sitting  upon  an  evening  when  Mr.  Curran  and 
Mr.  Hutchings  had  gone  to  the  theater,  and 
the  ladies  were  alone: 

Patience.—1'  Go  ye  to  the  lighted  hall  to 
search  for  learning?  Nay,  'tis  a  piddle,  not  a 
stream,  ye  search.  Mayhap  thou  sendest  thy 
men  for  barleycorn.  'Twould  then  surprise 
thee  should  the  asses  eat  it." 

Mrs.  H.—"  What  is  she  driving  at?  " 

Mrs.  P. — "  The  men  and  the  theater,  I  sup- 
pose." 

Mrs.  H. — "  Patience,  what  are  they  seeing 
up  there?" 

Patience. — "  Ne'er     a     timid     wench,     I 


vum." 


Mrs.  C. — "  You  don't  approve  of  their  go- 
ing, do  you,  Patience? " 


54  PATIENCE  WORTH 

Patience. — "  Thee'lt  find  a  hearth  more 
profit.  Better  they  cast  the  bit  of  paper." 

Mrs.  C. — "  What  does  she  mean  by  paper? 
Their  programmes?  " 

Patience. — "  Painted  parchment  squares." 

Mrs.  P. — "  Oh,  she  means  they'd  better  stay 
at  home  and  play  cards." 

Mrs.  H.— "Are  they  likely  to  get  their 
morals  corrupted  at  that  show?  " 

Patience. — "  He  who  tickleth  the  ass  to  start 
a  braying,  fain  would  carol  with  his  brother." 

Mrs.  C. — "  If  the  singing  is  as  bad  as  it 
usually  is  at  that  place,  I  don't  wonder  at  her 
disapproval.  But  what  about  the  girls,  Pa- 
tience? " 

Patience. — "  My  pettieskirt  ye  may  borrow 
for  the  brazens." 

Mrs.  P. — "  Now,  what  is  a  pettieskirt?  Is 
it  really  a  skirt  or  is  it  that  ruff  they  used  to 
wear  around  the  neck? " 

Patience. — "  Nay,  my  bib  covereth  the  neck- 
band." 

Mrs.  H. — "  Then,  where  do  you  wear  your 
pettieskirt? " 


PERSONALITY  OF  PATIENCE          55 

Patience.—6'  'Neath  my  kirtle." 

Mrs.  C. — "  Is  that  the  same  as  girdle?  Ljet's 
look  it  up." 

Patience. — "Art  fashioning  thy  new 
frock?" 

Mrs.  H. — "  I  predict  that  Patience  will 
found  a  new  style — Puritan." 

Patience. — "  'Twere  a  virtue,  egad!  " 

Mrs.  H. — "  You  evidently  don't  think  much 
of  our  present  style.  In  your  day  women 
dressed  more  modestly,  didn't  they?  " 

Patience. — "  Many's  the  wench  who  pulled 
her  points  to  pop.  But  ah,  the  locks  were 
combed  to  satin !  He  who  bent  above  might  see 
himself  reflected." 

Mrs.  C. — "  What  were  the  young  girls  of 
your  day  like,  Patience?  " 

Patience. — "  A  silly  lot,  as  these  of  thine. 
Wait!" 

There  was  no  movement  of  the  board  for 
about  three  minutes,  and  then: 

"  'Tis  a  sorry  lot,  not  harming  but  bore- 
some!" 


56  PATIENCE  WORTH 

Mrs.  H. — "  Oh,  Patience,  have  you  been  to 
the  theater?" 

Patience. — "A  peep  in  good  cause  coulo^ 
surely  ne'er  harm  the  godly." 

Mrs.  C. — "  How  do  you  think  we  ought  to 
look  after  those  men?  " 

Patience. — "  Thine  ale  is  drunk  at  the 
hearth.  Surely  he  who  stops  to  sip  may  bless 
the  firelog  belonging  to  thee." 

When  the  men  returned  home  they  agreed 
with  the  verdict  of  Patience  before  they  had 
heard  it,  that  it  was  a  "  tame  "  show,  "  not 
harming,  but  boresome." 

The  exclamation  of  Mrs.  Curran,  "  Let's 
look  it  up,"  in  the  extract  just  quoted  from  the 
record,  has  been  a  frequent  one  in  this  circle 
since  Patience  came.  So  many  of  her  words 
are  obsolete  that  her  friends  are  often  com- 
pelled to  search  through  the  dictionaries  and 
glossaries  for  their  meaning.  Her  reference  to 
articles  of  dress — wimple,  kirtle,  pettieskirt, 
points  and  so  on,  had  all  to  be  "  looked  up." 
Once  Patience  began  an  evening  with  this 
remark: 


PERSONALITY  OF  PATIENCE          57 

"  The  cockshut  finds  ye  still  peering  to  find 
the  other  land." 

"  What  is  cock's  hut?  "  asked  Mrs.  H. 

"  Nay,"  said  Patience,  "  Cock-shut.  Thee 
needeth  light,  but  cockshut  bringeth  dark." 

"  Cockshut  must  mean  shutting  up  the  cock 
at  night,"  suggested  a  visitor. 

"  Aye,  and  geese,  too,  then  could  be  put  to 
quiet,"  Patience  exclaimed.  "  Wouldst  thou 
wish  for  cockshut?" 

Search  revealed  that  cockshut  was  a  term 
anciently  applied  to  a  net  used  for  catching 
woodcock,  and  it  was  spread  at  nightfall,  hence 
cockshut  acquired  also  the  meaning  of  early 
evening.  Shakespeare  uses  the  term  once,  in 
Richard  III.,  in  the  phrase,  "  Much  about 
cockshut  time,"  but  it  is  a  very  rare  word  in 
literature,  and  probably  has  not  been  used, 
even  colloquially,  for  centuries. 

There  are  many  such  words  used  by  Pa- 
tience— relics  of  an  age  long  past.  The  writer 
was  present  at  a  sitting  when  part  of  a  ro- 
mantic story-play  of  medieval  days  was  being 
received  on  the  board.  One  of  the  characters 


58  PATIENCE  WORTH 

in  the  story  spoke  of  herself  as  "  playing  the 
jane-o'-apes."  No  one  present  had  ever  heard 
or  seen  the  word.  Patience  was  asked  if  it  had 
been  correctly  received,  and  she  repeated  it. 
Upon  investigation  it  was  found  that  it  is  a 
feminine  form  of  the  familiar  jackanapes, 
meaning  a  silly  girl.  Massinger  used  it  in  one 
of  his  plays  in  the  seventeenth  century,  but 
that  appears  to  be  the  only  instance  of  its  use 
in  literature. 

These  words  may  be  not  unknown  to  many 
people,  but  the  point  is  that  they  were  totally 
strange  to  those  at  the  board,  including  Mrs. 
Curran — words  that  could  not  possibly  have 
come  out  of  the  consciousness  or  subconscious- 
ness  of  any  one  of  them.  The  frequent  use 
of  such  words  helps  to  give  verity  to  the  archaic 
tongue  in  which  she  expresses  her  thoughts, 
and  the  consistent  and  unerring  use  of  this 
obsolete  form  of  speech  is,  next  to  the  char- 
acter of  her  literary  production,  the  strongest 
evidence  of  her  genuineness.  It  will  be  no- 
ticed, too,  that  the  language  she  uses  in  con- 
versation is  quite  different  from  that  in  her 


PERSONALITY  OF  PATIENCE          59 

literary  compositions,  although  there  are  defi- 
nite similarities  which  seem  to  prove  that 
they  come  from  the  same  source.  In  this  also 
she  is  wholly  consistent:  for  it  is  unquestion- 
ably true  that  no  poet  ever  talked  as  he  wrote. 
Every  writer  uses  colloquial  words  and  idioms 
in  conversation  that  he  would  never  employ  in 
literature.  No  matter  what  his  skill  or  genius 
as  a  writer  may  be,  he  talks  "  just  like  other 
people."  Patience  Worth  in  this,  as  in  other 
things,  is  true  to  her  character. 

It  may  be  repeated  that  in  all  this  matter 
— and  it  is  but  a  skimming  of  the  mass — one 
may  readily  discern  a  distinct  and  striking  per- 
sonality; not  a  wraith-like,  formless,  evanes- 
cent shadow,  but  a  personality  that  can  be 
clearly  visualized.  One  can  easily  imagine 
Patience  Worth  to  be  a  woman  of  the  Puri- 
tan period,  with,  however,  none  of  the  severe 
and  gloomy  beliefs  of  the  Puritan — a  woman 
of  a  past  age  stepped  out  of  an  old  picture  and 
leaving  behind  her  the  material  artificialities  of 
paint  and  canvas.  From  her  speech  and  her 


60  PATIENCE  WORTH 

writings  one  may  conceive  her  to  be  a  woman 
of  Northern  England,  possibly:  for  she  uses 
a  number  of  ancient  words  that  are  found  to 
have  been  peculiar  to  the  Scottish  border;  a 
country  woman,  perhaps,  for  in  all  of  her  com- 
munications there  are  only  two  or  three  refer- 
ences to  the  city,  although  her  knowledge  and 
love  of  the  drama  may  be  a  point  against  this 
assumption;  a  woman  who  had  read  much  in 
an  age  when  books  were  scarce,  and  women 
who  could  read  rarer  still:  for  although  she 
frequently  expresses  disdain  of  book  learning, 
she  betrays  a  large  accumulation  of  such  learn- 
ing, and  a  copious  vocabulary,  as  well  as  a  de- 
gree of  skill  in  its  use,  that  could  only  have 
been  acquired  from  much  study  of  books.  "  I 
have  bought  beads  from  a  pack,"  she  says, 
"  but  ne'er  yet  have  I  found  a  peddler  of 
words." 

And  then,  after  we  have  mentally  material- 
ized this  woman,  and  given  her  a  habitation 
and  a  time,  Patience  speaks  again,  and  all  has 
vanished.  "  Not  so,"  she  said  to  one  who  ques- 
tioned her,  "  I  be  abirthed  awhither  and  abide 


PERSONALITY  OF  PATIENCE          61 

me  where."  And  again  she  likened  herself  to 
the  wind.  "  I  be  like  the  wind,"  she  said,  "  who 
leaveth  not  track,  but  ever  'bout,  and  yet  like 
to  the  rain  who  groweth  grain  for  thee  to 
reap."  At  other  times  she  has  indicated  that 
she  has  never  had  a  physical  existence.  I  have 
quoted  her  saying:  "  I  do  plod  a  twist  o'  a  path 
and  it  hath  run  from  then  till  now."  At  a  later 
time  she  was  asked  what  she  meant  by  that. 
She  answered: 

"  Didst  e'er  to  crack  a  stone,  and  lo,  a  worm 
aharded?  (a  fossil).  'Tis  so,  for  list  ye,  I 
speak  like  ye  since  time  began." 

It  is  thus  she  reveals  herself  clearly  to  the 
mind,  but  when  one  attempts  to  approach  too 
closely,  to  lay  a  hand  upon  her,  as  it  were,  she 
invariably  recedes  into  the  unfathomable  deeps 
of  mysticism. 


THE  POETRY 

Am  I  a  broken  lyre, 
Who,  at  the  Master's  touch, 
Respondeth  with  a  tinkle  and  a  whir? 
Or  am  I  strung  in  full 

And  at  His  touch  give  forth  the  full  chord? 

— PATIENCE  WORTH. 

As  the  reader  will  have  observed,  the  poetry 
of  Patience  Worth  is  not  confined  to  a  single 
theme,  nor  to  a  group  of  related  themes.  It 
covers  a  range  that  extends  from  inanimate 
things  through  all  the  gradations  of  material 
life  and  on  into  the  life  of  spiritual  realms  as 
yet  uncharted.  It  includes  poems  of  senti- 
ment, poems  of  nature,  poem?  of  humanity; 
but  the  larger  number  deal  with  man  in  rela- 
tion to  the  mysteries  of  the  beyond.  All  of 
them  evince  intellectual  power,  knowledge  of 
nature  and  human  nature,  and  skill  in  con- 
struction. With  the  exception  of  one  or  two 
little  jingles,  the  poems  are  rhymeless.  Pa- 


64  PATIENCE  WORTH 

tience  may  not  wholly  agree  with  Milton  that 
rhyme  "  is  the  invention  of  a  barbarous  age  to 
set  off  wretched  matter  and  lame  metre," 
but  she  seldom  uses  it,  finding  in  blank  verse  a 
medium  that  suits  all  her  moods,  making  it  at 
will  as  light  and  ethereal  as  a  summer  cloud  or 
as  solemn  and  stately  as  a  Wagnerian  march. 
She  molds  it  to  every  purpose,  and  puts  it  to 
new  and  strange  uses.  Who,  for  example,  ever 
saw  a  lullaby  in  blank  verse?  It  is,  I  believe, 
quite  without  precedent  in  literature,  and  yet 
it  would  not  be  easy  to  find  a  lullaby  more 
daintily  beautiful  than  the  one  which  will  be 
presented  later  on. 

In  all  of  her  verse,  the  iambic  measure  is 
dominant,  but  it  is  not  maintained  with  mo- 
notonous regularity.  She  appreciates  the 
value  of  an  occasional  break  in  the  rhythm,  and 
she  understands  the  uses  of  the  pause.  But 
she  declines  to  be  bound  by  any  rules  of  line 
measurement.  Many  of  her  lines  are  in  accord 
with  the  decasyllabic  standard  of  heroic  verse, 
but  in  no  instance  is  that  standard  rigidly  ad- 
hered to:  some  of  the  lines  contain  as  many 


THE  POETRY  65 

as  sixteen  syllables,  others  drop  to  eight  or 
even  six. 

It  should  be  explained,  however,  that  the 
poetry  as  it  comes  from  the  ouija  board  is  not 
in  verse  form.  There  is  nothing  in  the  dicta- 
tion to  indicate  where  a  line  should  begin  or 
where  end,  nor,  of  course,  is  there  any  punc- 
tuation, there  being  no  way  by  which  the  marks 
of  punctuation  could  be  denoted.  There  is 
usually,  however,  a  perceptible  pause  at  the 
end  of  a  sentence.  The  words  are  taken  down 
as  they  are  spelled  on  the  board,  without  any 
attempt,  at  the  time,  at  versification  or  punc- 
tuation. After  the  sitting,  the  matter  is  punc- 
tuated and  lined  as  nearly  in  accord  with  the 
principles  of  blank  verse  construction  as  the 
abilities  of  the  editor  will  permit.  It  is  not 
claimed  that  the  line  arrangement  of  the  verses 
as  they  are  here  presented  is  perfect;  but  that 
is  a  detail  of  minor  importance,  and  for  what- 
ever technical  imperfections  there  may  be  in 
this  particular,  Patience  Worth  is  not  re- 
sponsible. The  important  thing  is  that  every 
word  is  given  exactly  as  it  came  from  the 


66  PATIENCE  WORTH 

board,  without  the  alteration  of  a  syllable,  and 
without  changing  the  position  or  even  the  spell- 
ing of  a  single  one. 

As  a  rule,  Patience  spells  the  words  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  standards  of  today,  but  there 
are  frequent  departures  from  those  standards, 
and  many  times  she  has  spelled  a  word  two  or 
three  different  ways  in  the  same  composition. 
For  example,  she  will  spell  "  spin  "  with  one 
n  or  two  n's  indifferently :  she  will  spell 
"  friend  "  correctly,  and  a  little  later  will  add 
an  e  to  it;  she  will  write  "boughs"  and 
"  bows "  in  the  same  composition.  On  the 
other  hand  she  invariably  spells  tongue 
"  tung,"  and  positively  refuses  to  change  it, 
and  this  is  true  also  of  the  word  bosom,  which 
she  spells  "  busom." 

There  are  indications  that  the  poems  and  the 
stories  are  in  course  of  composition  at  the  time 
they  are  being  produced  6n  the  ouija  board. 
Indeed,  one  can  almost  imagine  the  author  dic- 
tating to  an  amanuensis  in  the  manner  that  was 
necessary  before  stenography  was  invented, 
when  every  word  had  to  be  spelled  out  in  long- 


THE  POETRY  67 

hand.  At  times  the  little  table  will  move  with 
such  rapidity  that  it  is  very  difficult  to  follow 
its  point  with  the  eye  and  catch  the  letter  indi- 
cated. Then  there  will  be  a  pause,  and  the 
pointer  will  circle  around  the  board,  as  if  the 
composer  were  trying  to  decide  upon  a  word 
or  a  phrase.  Occasionally  four  or  five  words 
of  a  sentence  will  be  given,  then  suddenly  the 
planchette  will  dart  up  to  the  word  "  No,"  and 
begin  the  sentence  again  with  different  and,  it 
is  to  be  presumed,  more  satisfactory  words. 

Sometimes,  though  rarely,  Patience  will  be- 
gin a  composition  and  suddenly  abandon  it 
with  an  exclamation  of  displeasure,  or  else  take 
up  a  new  and  entirely  different  subject.  Once 
she  began  a  prose  composition  thus: 

"  I  waste  my  substance  on  the  weaving  of 
web  and  the  storing  of  pebbles.  When  shall  I 
build  mine  house,  and  when  fill  the  purse?  Oh, 
that  my  fancy  weaved  not  but  web,  and  desire 
pricketh  not  but  pebble!  " 

There  was  an  impatient  dash  across  the 
board,  and  then  she  exclaimed: 

"  Ifah,  'tis  bally  reasoning!     I  plucked  a 


68  PATIENCE  WORTH 

gosling  for  a  goose,  and  found  down  enough 
to  pad  the  parson's  saddle  skirts! " 

At  another  time  she  began: 

"  Rain,  art  thou  the  tears  wept  a  thousand 
years  agone,  and  soaked  into  the  granite  walls 
of  dumb  and  feelingless  races?  Now " 

There  was  a  long  pause  and  then  came  this 
lullaby:  « 

Oh,  baby,  soft  upon  my  breast  press  thou, 

And  let  my  fluttering  throat  spell  song  to  thee, 

A  song  that  floweth  so,  my  sleeping  dear: 

Oh,  buttercups  of  eve, 

Oh,  willynilly, 

My  song  shall  flutter  on, 

Oh,  willynilly. 

I  climb  a  web  to  reach  a  star, 

And  stub  my  toe  against  a  moonbeam 

Stretched  to  bar  my  way, 

Oh,  willynilly. 

A  love-puff  vine  shall  shelter  us, 

Oh,  baby  mine; 

And  then  across  the  sky  we'll  float 

And  puff  the  stars  away. 

Oh,  willynilly,  on  we'll  go, 

Willynilly  floating. 


THE  POETRY  69 

"  Thee  art  o'erfed  on  pudding,"  she  added 
to  Mrs.  Curran.  "  This  sauce  is  but  a  butter- 
whip." 

And  now,  having  briefly  referred  to  the 
technique  of  the  poems,  and  explained  the 
manner  in  which  they  are  transmitted  we  will 
make  a  more  systematic  presentation  of  them. 
For  a  beginning,  nothing  better  could  be  of- 
fered than  the  Spinning  Wheel  lullaby  here- 
tofore referred  to. 

In  it  we  can  see  the  mother  of,  perhaps, 
the  Puritan  days,  seated  at  the  spinning  wheel 
while  she  sings  to  the  child  which  is  supposed 
to  lie  in  the  cradle  by  her  side.  One  can  view 
through  the  open  door  the  old-fashioned 
flower  garden  bathed  in  sunlight,  can  hear  the 
song  of  the  bird  and  the  hum  of  the  bee,  and 
through  it  all  the  sound  of  the  wheel.  But! — 
it  is  the  song  of  a  childless  woman  to  an 
imaginary  babe:  Patience  has  declared  herself 
a  spinster. 

Strumm,  struimn! 
Ah,  wee  one, 


70  PATIENCE  WORTH 

Croon  unto  the  tendrill  tipped  with  sungilt. 
Nodding  thee  from  o'er  the  doorsill  there. 

Strumm,  strumm! 

My  wheel  shall  sing  to  thee. 
I  pull  the  flax  as  golden  as  thy  curl, 
And  sing  me  of  the  blossoms  blue, 
Their  promise,  like  thine  eyes  to  me. 

Strumm,  strumm  I 

'Tis  such  a  merry  tale  I  spinn. 
Ah,  wee  one,  croon  unto  the  honey  bee 
Who  diggeth  at  the  rose's  heart. 

Strumm,  strumm! 

My  wheel  shall  sing  to  thee, 
Heart-blossom  mine.     The  sunny  morn 
Doth  hum  with  lovelilt,  dear. 
I  fain  would  leave  my  spinning 
To  the  spider  climbing  there, 
And  bruise  thee,  blossom,  to  my  breast. 

j^ 
Strumm,  strumm  I 

What  fancies  I  do  weave! 
Thy  dimpled  hand  doth  flutter,  dear, 
Like  a  petal  cast  adrift 
Upon  the  breeze. 


THE  POETRY  71 

Strumm,  strumm! 

'Tis  faulty  spinning,  dear. 
A  cradle  built  of  thornwood, 
A  nest  for  thee,  my  bird. 
I  hear  thy  crooning,  wee  one, 
And  ah,  this  fluttering  heart. 

Strumm,  strumm! 

How  ruthlessly  I  spinn! 
My  wheel  doth  wirr  an  empty  song,  my  dear. 
For  tendrill  nodding  Bonder 
Doth  nod  in  vain,  my  sweet ; 
And  honey  bee  would  tarry  not 
For  thee ;  and  thornwood  cradle  swayeth 
Only  to  the  loving  of  the  wind! 

Strumm,  strumm! 

My  wheel  still  sings  to  thee, 
Thou  birdling  of  my  fancy's  realm  I 

Strumm,  strumm! 

An  empty  dream,  my  dear! 
The  sun  doth  shine,  my  bird; 
Or  should  he  fail,  he  shineth  here 
Within  my  heart  for  thee ! 

Strumm,  strumm! 

My  wheel  still  sings  to  thee. 


12  PATIENCE  WORTH 

Who  would  say  that  rhyme  or  measured 
lines  would  add  anything  to  this  unique 
song?  It  is  filled  with  the  images  which  are  the 
essentials  of  true  poetry,  and  it  has  the  rhythm 
which  sets  the  imagery  to  music  and  gives  it 
vitality.  "  The  tendrill  tipped  with  sungilt," 
"  the  sunny  morn  doth  hum  with  lovelilt," 
"thy  dimpled  hand  doth  flutter  like  a  petal 
cast  adrift  upon  the  breeze  "  —these  are  figures 
that  a  Shelley  would  not  wish  to  disown.  There 
is  a  lightness  and  delicacy,  too,  that  would 
seem  to  be  contrary  to  our  notions  of  the 
adaptiveness  of  blank  verse.  But  these  are 
technical  features.  It  is  the  pathos  of  the 
song,  the  expression  of  the  mother-yearning 
instinctive  in  every  woman,  which  gives  it 
value  to  the  heart. 

And  yet  there  is  a  pleasure  expressed  in 
this  song,  the  pleasure  of  imagination,  which 
makes  the  mind's  pictures  living  realities.  In 
the  poem  which  follows  Patience  expresses  the 
feelings  of  the  dreamer  who  is  rudely 
awakened  from  this  delightful  pastime  by  the 
realist  who  sees  but  what  his  eyes  behold: 


THE  POETRY  78 

Athin  the  even's  hour, 

When  shadow  purpleth  the  garden  wall, 

Then  sit  thee  there  adream, 

And  cunger  thee  from  out  the  pack  o'  me. 

Yea,  speak  thou,  and  tell  to  me 

What  'tis  thou  hearest  here. 

A  rustling?     Yea,  aright! 

A  murmuring?    Yea,  aright ! 

Ah,  then,  thou  sayest,  'tis  the  leaves 

That  love  one  'pon  the  other. 

Yea,  and  the  murmuring,  thou  sayest, 

Is  but  the  streamlet's  hum. 

Nay,  nay !    For  wait  thee. 
Ayonder  o'er  the  wall  doth  rise 
The  white  faced  Sister  o'  the  Sky. 
And  lo,  she  beareth  thee  a  fairies'  wand, 
And  showeth  thee  the  ghosts  o'  dreams. 

i 

Look  thou!     Ah,  look!     A  one 
Doth  step  adown  the  path !    The  rustle? 
'Tis  the  silken  whisper  o'  her  robe. 
The  hum  ?    The  love-note  o'  her  maiden  dream. 
See  thee,  ah,  see!     She  bendeth  there, 
And  branch  o'  bloom  doth  nod  and  dance. 
Hark,  the  note!     A  robin's  cheer? 


74  PATIENCE  WORTH 

Ah,  Brother,  nay. 

'Tis  the  whistle  o'  her  lover's  jfipe. 

See,  see,  the  path  e'en  now 

Doth  show  him,  tall  and  dark,  aside  the  gate. 

What!  What!  Thou  sayest 

'Tis  but  the  rustle  o'  the  leaves, 

And  brooklet's  humming  o'er  its  stony  path ! 

Then  hush !    Yea,  hush  thee ! 

Hush  and  leave  me  here! 

The  fairy  wand  hath  broke,  and  leaves 

Stand  still,  and  note  hath  ceased, 

And  maiden  vanished  with  thy  word. 

Thou,  thou  hast  broke  the  spell, 

And  dream  hath  heard  thy  word  and  fled. 

Yea,  sunk,  sunk  upon  the  path, 

They  o'  my  dreams — slain,  slain, 

And  dead  with  but  thy  word. 

Ah,  leave  me  here  and  go, 

For  Earth  doth  hold  not 

E'en  my  dreaming's  wraith. 

In  previous  chapters  I  have  spoken  of  the 
wit  and  humor  of  Patience  Worth.  In  only 
one  instance  has  she  put  humor  into  verse,  and 
that  I  have  already  quoted;  but  at  times  her 


THE  POETRY  75 

poetry  has  an  airy  playfulness  of  form  that 
gives  the  effect  of  humor,  even  though  the 
theme  and  the  intent  may  be  serious.  Here  is 
an  example: 

Whiff,  sayeth  the  wind, 

And  whiffing  on  its  way,  doth  blow  a  merry  tale. 
Where,  in  the  fields  all  furrowed  and  rough  with  corn, 
Late  harvested,  close-nestled  to  a  fibrous  root, 
And  warmed  by  the  sun  that  hid  from  night  there- 

neath, 
A  wee,  small,  furry  nest  of  root  mice  lay. 

Whiff,  sayeth  the  wind. 

Whiff,  sayeth  the  wind. 
I  found  this  morrow,  on  a  slender  stem, 
A  glory  of  the  morn,  who  sheltered  in  her  wine-red 

throat 

A  tiny  spinning  worm  that  wove  the  livelong  day, — 
Long  after  the  glory  had  put  her  flag  to  mast — 
And  spun  the  thread  I  followed  to  the  dell, 
Where,  in  a  gnarled  old  oak,  I  found  a  grub, 
Who  waited  for  the  spinner's  strand 
To  draw  him  to  the  light. 

Whiff,  sayeth  the  wind. 

Whiff,  sayeth  the  wind! 
I  blew  a  beggar's  rags,  and  loving 


76  PATIENCE  WORTH 

Was  the  flapping  of  the  cloth.     And  singing  on 
I  went  to  blow  a  king's  mantle  'bout  his  limbs, 
And  cut  me  on  the  crusted  gilt. 
And  tainted  did  I  stain  the  rose  until  she  turned 
A  snuffy  brown  and  rested  her  poor  head 
Upon  the  rail  along  the  path. 
Whiff,  sayeth  the  wind. 

Whiff,  sayeth  the  wind. 
I  blow  me  'long  the  coast, 
And  steal  from  out  the  waves  their  roar; 
And  yet  from  out  the  riffles  do  I  steal 
The  rustle  of  the  leaves,  who  borrow  of  the  riffle's 

song 

From  me  at  summer-tide.     And  then 
I  pipe  unto  the  sands,  who  dance  and  creep 
Before  me  in  the  path.    I  blow  the  dead 
And  lifeless  earth  to  dancing,  tingling  life, 
And  slap  thee  to  awake  at  morn. 

Whiff,  sayeth  the  wind. 

There  is  a  vivacity  in  this  odd  conceit  that  in 
itself  brings  a  smile,  which  is  likely  to  broaden 
at  the  irony  in  the  suggestion  of  the  wind  cut- 
ting itself  on  the  crusted  gilt  of  a  king's  mantle. 
Equally  spirited  in  movement,  but  vastly  dif- 
ferent in  character,  is  the  one  which  follows : 


THE  POETRY  77 

Hi-ho,  alack-a-day,  whither  going? 
Art  dawdling  time  away  adown  the  primrose  path 
And  wishing  golden  dust  to  fancied  value? 
Ah,  catch  the  milch-dewed  air,  breathe  deep 
The  clover-scented  breath  across  the  field, 
And  feed  upon  sweet-rooted  grasses 
Thou  hast  idly  plucked. 
Come,  Brother,  then  let's  on  together. 

Hi-ho,  alack-a-day,  whither  going? 
Is  here  thy  path  adown  the  hard-flagged  pave, 
Where,  bowed,  the  workers  blindly  shuffle  on ; 
And  dumbly  stand  in  gullies  bound, 
The  worn,  bedogged,  silent-suffering  beast, 
Far  driven  past  his  due? 

And  thou,  beloved,  hast  thy  burden  worn  thee  weary? 
Come,  Brother,  then  let's  on  together. 

Hi-ho,  alack-a-day,  whither  going? 
Hast  thou  begun  the  tottering  of  age, 
And  doth  the  day  seem  over-long  to  thee? 
Art  fretting  for  release,  and  dost  thou  lack 
The  power  to  weave  anew  life's  tangled  skein? 
Come,  Brother,  then  let's  on  together. 

The  second  line  of  this  will  at  once  recall 
Shakespeare's  "primrose  path  of  dalliance," 
and  it  is  one  of  the  rare  instances  in  which 


78  PATIENCE  WORTH 

Patience  may  be  said  to  have  borrowed  a  meta- 
phor; but  in  the  line  which  follows,  "  and  wish- 
ing golden  dust  to  fancied  value,"  she  puts  the 
figure  to  better  use  than  he  in  whom  it  origi- 
nated. Beyond  this  line  there  is  nothing  spe- 
cially remarkable  in  this  poem,  and  it  is  given 
mainly  to  show  the  versatility  of  the  com- 
poser, and  as  another  example  of  her  ability  to 
present  vivid  and  striking  pictures. 

Reference  has  been  made  to  the  love  of 
nature  and  the  knowledge  of  nature  betrayed 
in  these  poems.  Even  in  those  of  the  most 
spiritual  character  nature  is  drawn  upon  for 
illustrations  and  symbols,  and  the  lines  are 
lavishly  strewn  with  material  metaphor  and 
similes  that  open  up  the  gates  of  understand- 
ing. This  picture  of  winter,  for  example, 
brings  out  the  landscape  it  describes  with  the 
vividness  and  reality  of  a  stereoscope,  and  yet 
it  is  something  more  than  a  picture: 

Snow  tweaketh  'neath  thy  feet, 
And  like  a  wandering  painter  stalketh  Frost, 
Daubing  leaf  and  lichen.     Where  flowed  a  cataract 


THE  POETRY  79 

And  mist-fogged  stream,  lies  silvered  sheen, 
Stark,  dead  and  motionless.     I  hearken 
But  to  hear  the  she-e-e-e  of  warning  wind, 
Fearful  lest  I  waken  Nature's  sleeping. 
Await  ye !    Like  a  falcon  loosed 
Cometh  the  awakening.    Then  returneth  Spring 
To  nestle  in  the  curving  breast  of  yonder  hill, 
And  sets  to  rest  like  the  falcon  seeketh 
His  lady's  outstretched  arm. 

And  here  is  another  picture  of  winter, 
painted  with  a  larger  brush  and  heavier  pig- 
ment, but  expressing  the  same  thought,  that 
life  doth  ever  follow  death: 

Dead,  all  dead ! 

The  earth,  the  fields,  lie  stretched  in  sleep 
Like  weary  toilers  overdone. 
The  valleys  gape  like  toothless  age, 
Besnaggled  by  dead  trees. 

The  hills,  like  boney  jaws  whose  flesh  hath  dropped, 
Stand  grinning  at  the  deathy  day. 
The  lily,  too,  hath  cast  her  shroud 
And  clothed  her  as  a  brown-robed  nun. 
The  moon  doth,  at  the  even's  creep, 
Reach  forth  her  whitened  hands  and  sooth 
The  wrinkled  brow  of  earth  to  sleep. 


80  PATIENCE  WORTH 

Ah,  whither  flown  the  fleecy  summer  clouds, 

To  bank,  and  fall  to  earth  in  billowed  light, 

And  paint  the  winter's  brown  to  spangled  white? 

Where,  too,  have  flown  the  happy  songs, 

Long^died  away  with  sighing 

On  the  shore-wave's  crest? 

Will  they  take  Echo  as  their  Guide, 

And  bound  from  hill  to  hill  at  this, 

The  sleepy  time  of  earth, 

And  waken  forest  song  'mid  naked  waste? 

Ah,  slumber,  slumber,  slumber  on. 

'Tis  with  a  loving  hand  He  scattereth  the  snow, 

To  nestle  young  spring's  offering, 

That  dying  Earth  shall  live  anew. 

How  different  this  from  Thomson's  pessi- 
mistic, 

Dread  winter  spreads  his  latest  glooms 

And  reigns  tremendous  o'er  the  conquered  year. 

This  poem  seemed  to  present  unusual  diffi- 
culties to  Patience.  The  words  came  slowly 
and  haltingly,  and  the  indications  of  composi- 
tion were  more  marked  than  in  any  other  of 
her  poems.  The  third  line  was  first  dictated 
"  Like  weary  workmen  overdone,"  and  then 


THE  POETRY  81 

changed  to  "  weary  toilers,"  and  the  eighteenth 
line  was  given:  "  On  the  shore-wavelet's 
breast,"  and  afterwards  altered  to  read  "  the 
shorewave's  crest." 

Possibly  it  was  because  the  poet  has  not  the 
same  zest  in  painting  pictures  of  winter  that 
she  has  in  depicting  scenes  of  kindlier  seasons, 
in  which  she  is  in  accord  with  nearly  all  poets, 
and,  for  that  matter,  with  nearly  all  people. 
Her  pen,  if  one  may  use  the  word,  is  speediest 
and  surest  when  she  presents  the  beautiful, 
whether  it  be  the  material  or  the  spiritual.  She 
expresses  this  feeling  herself  with  beauty  of 
phrase  and  rhythm  in  this  verse,  which  may  be 
entitled  "  The  Voice  of  Spring." 

The  streamlet  under  fernbanked  brink 

Doth  laugh  to  feel  the  tickle  of  the  waving  mass ; 

And  silver-rippled  echo  soundeth 

Under  over-hanging  cliff. 

The  robin  heareth  it  at  morn 

And  steals  its  chatter  for  his  song. 

And  oft  at  quiet-sleeping 

Of  the  Spring's  bright  day, 

I  wander  me  to  dream  along  the  brooklet's  bank, 


88  PATIENCE  WORTH 

And  hark  me  to  a  song  of  her  dead  voice, 

That  lieth  where  the  snowflakes  vanish 

On  the  molten  silver  of  the  brooklet's  breast ; 

And  watch  the  stream, 

Who,  over-fearful  lest  she  lose  the  right 

To  ripple  to  the  chord  of  Spring's  full  harmony, 

Doth  harden  at  her  heart 

And  catch  the  song  a  prisoner  to  herself; 

To  loosen  only  at  the  wooing  kiss 

Of  youthful  Winter's  sun, 

And  fill  the  barren  waste  with  phantom  spring. 

Or,  passing  on  to  autumn,  consider  this 
apostrophe  to  a  fallen  leaf: 

Ah,  paled  and  faded  leaf  of  spring  agone, 

Whither  goest  thou?    Art  speeding 

To  another  land  upon  the  brooklet's  breast? 

Or  art  thou  sailing  to  the  sea,  to  lodge 

Amid  a  reef,  and,  kissed  by  wind  and  wave, 

Die  of  too  much  love? 

Thou'lt  find  a  resting  place  amid  the  moss, 

And,  ah,  who  knows  f    The  royal  gem 

May  be  thine  own  love's  offering. 

Or  wilt  thou  flutter  as  a  time-yellowed  page, 

And  mould  among  thy  sisters,  ere  the  sun 

May  peep  within  the  pack? 


THE  POETRY  83 

Or  will  the  robin  nest  with  thee 

At  Spring's  awakening?    The  romping  brook 

Will  never  chide  thee,  but  ever  coax  thee  on. 

And  should-st  thou  be  impaled 

Upon  a  thorny  branch,  what  then? 

Try  not  a  flight.     Thy  sisters  call  thee. 

Could  crocus  spring  from  frost, 

And  wilt  thou  let  the  violet  shrink  and  die? 

Nay,  speed  not,  for  God  hath  not 

A  mast  for  thee  provided. 

Autumn,  too,  is  the  theme  of  this: 

She-e-e !    She-e-e !    She-e-e-e  1 
The  soughing  wind  doth  breathe. 
The  white-crest  cloud  hath  drabbed 
At  season's  late.     The  trees  drip  leaf-waste 
Unto  the  o'erloved  blades  aneath, 
Who  burned  o'  love,  to  die. 

'Tis  the  parting  o'  the  season. 
Yea,  and  earth  doth  weep.     The  mellow  moon 
Stands  high  o'er  golded  grain.     The  cot-smoke 
Curleth  like  to  a  loving  arm 
That  reacheth  up  unto  the  sky. 
The  grain  ears  ope,  to  grin  unto  the  day. 
The  stream  hath  laden  with  a  pack  o'  leaves 


84.  PATIENCE  WORTH 

To  bear  unto  the  dell,  where  bloom 

Doth  hide  in  waiting  for  her  pack. 

The  stars  do  glitter  cold,  and  dance  to  warm  them 

There  upon  the  sky's  blue  carpet  o'er  the  earth. 

'Tis  season's  parting. 

Yea,  and  earth  doth  weep.     The  Winter  cometh, 
And  he  bears  her  jewels  for  the  decking 
Of  his  bride.    A  glittered'  crown 
Shall  fall  'pon  earth,  and  sparkled  drop 
Shall  stand  like  gem  that  flasheth 
'Pon  a  nobled  brow.    Yea,  the  tears 
Of  earth  shall  freeze  and  drop 
As  pearls,  the  necklace  o'  the  earth. 
'Tis  season's  parting.    Yea, 
And  earth  doth  weep. 
'Tis  Fall. 

She  does  not  confine  herself  to  the  Seasons 
in  her  tributes  to  the  divisions  of  time.  There 
are  many  poems  which  have  the  day  for  their 
subject,  all  expressive  of  delight  in  every 
aspect  of  the  changing  hours.  There  is  a  paean 
to  the  day  in  this : 

The  Morn  awoke  from  off  her  couch  of  fleece, 

And  cast  her  youth-dampt  breath  to  sweet  the  Earth. 


THE  POETRY  85 

The  birds  sent  carol  up  to  climb  the  vasts. 
The  sleep-stopped  Earth  awaked  in  murmuring. 
The  dark-winged  Night  flew  past  the  Day 
Who  trod  his  gleaming  upward  way. 
The  fields  folk  musicked  at  the  sun's  warm  ray. 
Web-strewn,  the  sod,  hung  o'er  o'  rainbow  gleam. 
The  brook,  untiring,  ever  singeth  on. 

The  Day  hath  broke,  and  busy  Earth 

Hath  set  upon  the  path  o'  hours. 

Mute  Night  hath  spread  her  darksome  wing 

And  loosed  the  brood  of  dreams, 

And  Day  hath  set  the  downy  mites  to  flight. 

Fling  forth  thy  dreaming  hours !    Awake  from  dark ! 

And  hark !    And  hark !    The  Earth  doth  ring  in  song ! 

'TisDay!    'Tis  Day !    'TisDay! 

The  close  observer  will  notice  in  all  of  these 
poems  that  there  is  nothing  hackneyed.  The 
themes,  the  thoughts,  the  images,  the  phrasing, 
are  almost  if  not  altogether  unique.  The  verse 
which  follows  is,  I  am  inclined  to  believe,  abso- 
lutely so: 

Go  to  the  builder  of  all  dreams 

And  beg  thy  timbers  to  cast  thee  one. 


86  PATIENCE  WORTH 

Ah,  Builder,  let  me  wander  in  this  land 

Of  softened  shapes  to  choose.     My  hand  doth  reach 

To  catch  the  mantle  cast  by  lilies  whom  the  sun 

Hath  loved  too  well.     And  at  this  morrow 

Saw  I  not  a  purple  wing  of  night 

To  fold  itself  and  bask  in  morning  light? 

I  watched  her  steal  straight  to  the  sun's 

Bedazzled  heart.    I  claim  her  purpled  gold. 

And  watched  I  not,  at  twi-hours  creep, 

A  heron's  blue  wing  skim  across  the  pond, 

Where  gulf  clouds  fleeted  in  a  fleecy  herd, 

Reflected  fair?    I  claim  the  blue  and  let 

My  heart  to  gambol  with  the  sky-herd  there. 

At  midday  did  I  not  then  find 

A  rod  of  gold,  and  sun's  flowers, 

Bounded  in  by  wheat's  betasseled  stalks? 

I  claim  the  gold  as  mine,  to  cast  my  dream. 

And  then  at  stormtide  did  I  catch  the  sun, 

Becrimsoned  in  his  anger ;  and  from  his  height 

Did  he  not  bathe  the  treetops  in  his  gore? 

The  red  is  mine.     I  weave  my  dream  and  find 

The  rainbow,  and  the  rainbow's  end — a  nothingness. 

Almost  equally  weird  is  this  "  Birth  of  a 
Song": 

I  builded  me  a  harp, 

And  set  asearch  for  strings. 


THE  POETRY  87 

Ah,  and  Folly  set  me  'pon  a  track 
That  set  the  music  at  a  wail; 
For  I  did  string  the  harp 
With  silvered  moon-threads; 
Aye,  and  dead  the  notes  did  sound. 
And  I  did  string  it  then 
With  golden  sun's-threads, 
And  Passion  killed  the  song. 

Then  did  I  to  string  it  o'er — 
And  'twer  a  jeweled  string — 
A  chain  o'  stars,  and  lo, 
They  laughed,  and  sorry  wert  the  song. 
And  I  did  strip  the  harp  and  cast 
The  stars  to  merry  o'er  the  Night ; 
And  string  anew,  and  set  athrob  a  string 
Abuilded  of  a  lover's  note,  and  lo, 
The  song  did  sick  and  die, 
And  crumbled  to  a  sweeted  dust, 
And  blew  unto  the  day. 

Anew  did  I  to  string, 
Astring  with  wail  o'  babe, 
And  Earth  loved  not  the  song. 
I  felled  as  or  rowed  at  the  task, 
And  still  the  Harp  wert  mute. 
So  did  I  to  pluck  out  my  heart, 
And  lo,  it  throbbed  and  sung, 


88  PATIENCE  WORTH 

And  at  the  hurt  o'  loosing  o'  the  heart 
A  song  wert  born. 

That,  however,  is  but  a  pretty  play  of  fancy 
upon  things  within  our  ken,  however  shadowy 
and  evanescent  she  may  make  them  by  her 
touch.  But  in  the  poem  which  follows  she 
touches  on  the  border  of  a  land  we  know  not: 

I'd  greet  thee,  loves  of  jester's  day. 
I'd  call  thee  out  from  There. 
I'd  sup  the  joys  of  yonder  realm. 
I'd  list  unto  the  songs  of  them 
*  Who  days  of  me  know  not. 
I'd  call  unto  this  hour 
The  lost  of  joys  and  woes. 
I'd  seek  me  out  the  sorries 
That  traced  the  seaming  of  thy  cheek, 
O  thou  of  yester's  day ! 

I'd  read  the  hearts  astopped, 

That  Earth  might  know  the  price 

They  paid  as  toll. 

I'd  love  their  loves,  I'd  hate  their  hates, 

I'd  sup  the  cups  of  them; 

Yea,  I'd  bathe  me  in  the  sweetness 

Shed  by  youth  of  yester's  day. 


THE  POETRY  89 

Yea,  of  these  I'd  weave  the  Earth  a  cloak — 

But  ah,  He  wove  afirst ! 

They  cling  like  petal  mold,  and  sweet  the  Earth. 

Yea,  the  Earth  lies  wrapped 

Within  the  holy  of  its  ghost. 

'Tis  but  a  drip  o'  loving,"  she  said  when 
she  had  finished  this. 

Nearly  every  English  poet  has  a  tribute  to 
the  Skylark,  but  I  doubt  if  there  are  many 
more  exquisite  than  this: 

I  tuned  my  song  to  love  and  hate  and  pain 

And  scorn,  and  wrung  from  passion's  heat  the  flame, 

And  found  the  song  a  wailing  waste  of  voice. 

My  song  but  reached  the  earth  and  echoed  o'er  its 

plains. 

I  sought  for  one  who  sang  a  wordless  lay, 
And  up  from  'mong  the  rushes  soared  a  lark. 
Hark  to  his  song  I 

From  sunlight  came  his  gladdening  note. 
And  ah,  his  trill — the  raindrops'  patter  t 

And  think  ye  that  the  thief  would  steal 

The  rustle  of  the  leaves,  or  yet 

The  chilling  chatter  of  the  brooklet's  song? 

Not  claiming  as  his  own  the  carol  of  my  h^art, 


90  PATIENCE  WORTH 

Or  listening  to  my  plaint,  he  sings  amid  the  clouds; 
And  through  the  downward  cadence  I  but  hear 
The  murmurings  of  the  day. 

One  naturally  thinks  of  Shelley's  "Sky- 
lark "  when  reading  this,  and  there  are  some 
passages  in  that  celebrated  poem  that  show  a 
similarity  of  metaphor,  such  as  this: 

Sounds  of  vernal  showers 
On  the  twinkling  grass ; 
Rain-awakened  flowers ; 
All  that  ever  was 
Joyous  and  clear  and  fresh 
Thy  music  doth  surpass. 

And  there  is  something  of  the  same  thought 
in  the  lines  of  Edmund  Burke : 

Teach  me,  O  lark !  with  thee  to  greatly  rise, 
T'  exalt  my  soul  and  lift  it  to  the  skies ; 
To  make  each  worldly  joy  as  mean  appear, 
Unworthy  care  when  heavenly  joys  are  near. 

But  Patience  nowhere  belittles  earthly  joys 
that  are  not  evil  in  themselves;  nor  does  she 


THE  POETRY  91 

teach  that  all  earthly  passions  are  inherently, 
wrong:  for  earthly  love  is  the  theme  of  many 
of  her  verses. 

Her  expressions  of  scorn  are  sometimes 
powerful  in  their  vehemence.  This,  on  "  War," 
for  example: 

Ah,  thinkest  thou  to  trick? 
I  fain  would  peep  beneath  the  visor. 
A  god  of  war,  indeed !    Thou  liest  I 
A  masquerading  fiend, 
The  harlot  of  the  universe — 
War,  whose  lips,  becrimsoned  in  her  lover's  blood, 
Smile  only  to  his  death-damped  eyes! 
I  challenge  thee  to  throw  thy  coat  of  mail ! 
Ah,  God!    Look  thou  beneath! 
Behold,  those  arms  outstretched! 
That  raiment  over-spangled  with  a  leaden  rain! 
O,  Lover,  trust  her  not! 
She  biddeth  thee  in  siren  song, 
And  clotheth  in  a  silken  rag  her  treachery, 
To  mock  thee  and  to  wreak 
Her  vengeance  at  thy  hearth. 
Cast  up  the  visor's  skirt! 
Thou'lt  see  the  snakey  strands. 
A  god  of  war,  indeed!    I  brand  ye  as  a  lie! 


92  PATIENCE  WORTH 

Such  outbreaks  as  this  are  rare  in  her 
poetry,  but  in  her  conversation  she  occasionally 
gives  expression  to  anger  or  scorn  or  con- 
tempt, though,  as  stated,  she  seldom  dignifies 
such  emotions  in  verse.  Love,  as  I  have  said, 
is  her  favorite  theme  in  numbers,  the  love  of 
God  first  and  far  foremost,  and  after  that 
brother  love  and  mother  love.  To  the  love  of 
man  for  woman,  or  woman  for  man,  there  is 
seldom  a  reference  in  her  poems,  although  it 
is  the  theme  of  some  of  her  dramatic  works. 
There  is  an  exquisite  expression  of  mother 
love  in  the  spinning  wheel  lullaby  already 
given,  but  for  rapturous  glorification  of  in- 
fancy, it  would  be  difficult  to  surpass  this, 
which  does  not  reveal  its  purport  until  the  last 
line: 

Ah,  greet  the  day,  which,  like  a  golden  butterfly, 

Hovereth  'twixt  the  night  and  morn ; 

And  welcome  her  fullness — the  hours 

'Mid  shadow  and  those  the  rose  shall  grace. 

Hast  thou  among  her  hours  thy  heart's 

Desire  and  dearest?    Name  thou  then  of  all 

His  beauteous  gifts  thy  greatest  treasure. 


THE  POETRY  93 

The  morning,  cool  and  damp,  dark-shadowed 

By  the  frowning  sun — is  this  thy  chosen? 

The  midday,  flaming  as  a  sword, 

Deep-stained  by  noon's  becrimsoned  light — 

Is  this  thy  chosen?     Or  misty  startide, 

Woven  like  a  spinner's  web  and  jeweled 

By  the  climbing  moon — is  this  thy  chosen? 

Doth  forest  shade,  or  shimmering  stream, 

Or  wild  bird  song,  or  cooing  of  the  nesting  dove, 

Bespeak  thy  chosen?     He  who  sendeth  light 

Sendeth  all  to  thee,  pledges  of  a  bonded  love. 

And  ye  who  know  Him  not,  look  ye ! 

From  all  His  gifts  He  pilfered  that  which  made  it 

His 

To  add  His  fullest  offering  of  love. 
From  out  the  morning,  at  the  earliest  tide, 
He  plucked  two  lingering  stars,  who  tarried 
Lest  the  dark  should  sorrow.    And  when  the  day  was 

born, 

The  glow  of  sun-flush,  veiled  by  gossamer  cloud 
And  tinted  soft  by  lingering  night ; 
And  rose  petals,  scattered  by  a  loving  breeze; 
The  lily's  satin  cheek,  and  dove  cooes, 
And  wild  bird  song,  and  Death  himself 
Is  called  to  offer  of  himself ; 
And  soft  as  willow  buds  may  be, 


94  PATIENCE  WORTH 

He  claimeth  but  the  down  to  fashion  this,  thy  gift, 
The  essence  of  His  love,  thine  own  first-born. 

In  brief,  the  babe  concentrates  within  itself 
all  the  beauties  and  all  the  wonders  of  nature. 
Its  eyes,  "  two  lingering  stars  who  tarried  lest 
the  dark  should  sorrow,"  and  in  its  face  "  the 
glow  of  sun  flush  veiled  by  gossamer  cloud," 
"rose  petals"  and  the  "lily's  satin  cheek"; 
its  voice  the  dove's  coo.  "  From  all  His  gifts 
He  pilfered  that  which  made  it  His  " — the 
divine  essence — "  to  add  His  fullest  offering 
of  love."  This  is  the  idealism  of  true  poetry, 
and  what  mother  looking  at  her  own  firstborn 
will  say  that  it  is  overdrawn? 

So  much  for  mother-love.  Of  her  lines  on 
brotherhood  I  have  already  given  example. 
In  only  a  few  verses,  as  I  have  said,  does  Pa- 
tience speak  of  love  between  man  and  woman. 
The  poem  which  follows  is  perhaps  the  most 
eloquent  of  these: 

'Tis  mine,  this  gift,  ah,  mine  alone, 
To  paint  the  leaden  sky  to  lilac-rose, 
Or  coax  the  sullen  sun  to  flash, 
Or  carve  from  granite  gray  a  flaming  knight, 


THE  POETRY  95 

Or  weave  the  twilight  hours  with  garlands  gay, 

Or  wake  the  morning  with  my  soul's  glad  song, 

Or  at  my  bitterest  drink  a  sweetness  cast, 

Or  gather  from  my  loneliness  the  flower — 

A  dream  amid  a  mist  of  tears. 

Ah,  treasure  mine,  this  do  I  pledge  to  thee, 

That  none  may  peer  within  thy  land ;  and  only 

When  the  moon  shines  white  shall  I  disclose  thee ; 

Lest,    straying,    thou    should'st    fade;    and    in    the 

blackness 

Of  the  midnight  shall  I  fondle  thee, 
Afraid  to  show  thee  to  the  day. 
When  I  shall  give  to  Him,  the  giver, 
All  my  treasure's  stores,  and  darkness  creeps  upon  me, 
Then  will  I  for  this  return  a  thank, 
And  show  thee  to  the  world. 
Blind  are  they  to  thee,  but  ah,  the  darkness 
Is  illumined;  and  lo!  thy  name  is  burned 
Like  flaming  torch  to  light  me  on  my  way. 
Then  from  thy  wrapping  of  love  I  pluck 
My  dearest  gift,  the  memory  of  my  dearest  love. 
Ah,  memory,  thou  painter, 
Who  from  cloud  canst  fashion  her  dear  form, 
Or  from  a  stone  canst  turn  her  smile, 
Or  fill  my  loneliness  with  her  dear  voice, 
Or  weave  a  loving  garland  for  her  hair — 
Thou  art  my  gift  of  God,  to  be  my  comrade  here. 


96  PATIENCE  WORTH 

Next  to  such  love  as  this  comes  friendship, 
and  she  has  put  an  estimate  of  the  value  of  a 
friend  in  these  words: 

Of  Earth  there  be  this  store  of  joys  and  woes. 

Yea,  and  they  do  make  the  days  o'  me. 

I  sit  me  here  adream  that  did  I  hold 

From  out  the  whole,  but  one,  my  dearest  gift, 

What  then  would  it  to  be?     Doth  days  and  nights 

Of  bright  and  dark  make  this  my  store? 

Nay.     Do  happy  hours  and  woes-tide,  then, 

Beset  this  day  of  me  and  make  the  thing  I'd  keep? 

Nay.     Doth  metal  store  and  jewelled  string 

Then  be  aworth  to  me?    Nay.    I  set  me  here, 

And  dreaming,  fall  to  reasoning  for  this, 

That  I  would  keep,  if  but  one  gift  wert  mine 

Must  hold  the  store  o'  all.     Yea,  must  hold 

The  dark  for  light,  yea,  and  hold  the  light  for  dark, 

Aye,  and  hold  the  sweet  for  sours,  aye,  and  hold 

The  love  for  Hate.    Yea,  then,  where  may  I  to  turn? 

And  lo,  as  I  adreaming  sat 

A  voice  spaked  out  to  me :  What  ho !  What  ho  I 

And  lo,  the  voice  of  one,  a  friend ! 

This,  then,  shall  be  my  treasure, 
And  the  Earth  part  I  shall  hold 
From  out  all  gifts  of  Him. 


THE  POETRY  97 

Love  of  God,  and  God's  love  for  us,  and  the 
certainty  of  life  after  death  as  a  consequence 
of  that  love,  are  the  themes  of  Patience's  finest 
poetry,  consideration  of  which  is  reserved  for 
succeeding  chapters.  Yet  a  taste  of  this  de- 
votional poetry  will  not  be  amiss  at  this  point 
in  the  presentation  of  her  works,  as  an  indica- 
tion of  the  character  of  that  which  is  to  come. 

| 
Lo,  'pon  a  day  there  bloomed  a  bud, 

And  swayed  it  at  adance  'pon  sweeted  airs. 

And  gardens  oped  their  greened  breast 

To  shew  to  Earth  o'  such  an  one. 

And  soft  the  morn  did  woo  its  bloom ; 

And  nights  wept  'pon  its  cheek, 

And  mosses  crept  them  'bout  the  stem, 

That  sun  not  scoarch  where  it  had  sprung. 

And  lo,  the  garden  sprite,  a  maid, 
Who  came  aseek  at  every  day, 
And  kissed  the  bud,  and  cast  o'  drops 
To  cool  the  warm  sun's  rays. 
And  bud  did  hang  it  swaying  there, 
And  love  lept  from  the  maiden's  breast. 

And  days  wore  on ;  and  nights  did  wrap 
The  bud  to  wait  the  morn; 
And  maid  aseeked  the  spot. 


98  PATIENCE  WORTH 

When,  lo,  there  came  a  Stranger 
To  the  garden's  wall, 
Who  knocked  Him  there 
And  bid  the  maiden  come. 


And  up  unto  her  heart  she  pressed  her  hand, 

And  reached  it  forth  to  stay  the  bud's  soft  sway, 

And  lo,  the  sun  hung  dark, 

And  Stranger  knocked  Him  there. 

And  'twere  the  maid  did  step  most  regal  to  the  place. 

And  harked,  and  lo,  His  voice  aspoke. 

And  she  looked  upon  His  face, 

And  lo,  'twere  sorry  sore,  and  sad! 

And  soft  there  came  His  word 

Of  pleading  unto  her : 

"  O'  thy  garden's  store  do  offer  unto  me." 

And  lo,  the  maid  did  turn  and  seek  her  out  the  bud, 

And  pluck  it  that  she  bear  it  unto  Him. 

And  at  the  garden's  ope  He  stood  and  waited  her. 

And  forth  her  hand  she  held,  therein  the  bud, 

And  lo,  He  took  therefrom  the  bloom 

And  left  the  garden  bare, 

And  maid  did  stand  astripped 

Of  heart's  sun  'mid  her  garden's  bloom. 

When  lo,  athin  the  wound  there  sunk 

A  warmpth  that  filled  it  up  with  love. 

Yea,  'twere  the  smile  o'  Him,  the  price. 


THE  POETRY  99 

But  she  has  given  another  form  of  poem 
which  should  be  presented  before  this  brief  re- 
view of  her  more  material  verse  is  concluded, 
and  it  is  a  form  one  would  hardly  expect  from 
such  a  source.  I  refer  to  the  "  poem  of  occa- 
sion." A  few  days  before  Christmas,  Mrs. 
Curran  remarked  as  she  sat  at  the  board:  "  I 
wonder  if  Patience  wouldn't  give  us  a  Christ- 
mas poem."  And  without  a  moment's  hesita- 
tion she  did.  Here  it  is: 

I  hied  me  to  the  glen  and  dell, 

And  o'er  the  heights,  afar  and  near, 

To  find  the  Yule  sprite's  haunt. 

I  dreamt  me  it  did  bide 

Where  mistletoe  doth  bead; 

And  found  an  oak  whose  boughs 

Hung  clustered  with  its  borrowed  loveliness. 

Ah,  could  such  a  one  as  she 

Abide  her  in  this  chill? 

For  bleakness  wraps  the  oak  about 

And  crackles  o'er  her  dancing  branch. 

Nay,  her  very  warmth 

Would  surely  thaw  away  the  icy  shroud, 

And  mistletoe  would  die 

Adreaming  it  was  spring. 


100  PATIENCE  WORTH 

I  hied  me  to  the  holly  tree 

And  made  me  sure  to  find  her  there. 

But  nay, 

The  thorny  spines  would  prick  her  tenderness. 

Ah,  where  then  doth  she  bide? 


I  asked  the  frost  who  stood 

Upon  the  fringed  grasses  'neath  the  oak. 

"  I  know  her  not,  but  I 

Am  ever  bidden  to  her  feast. 

Ask  thou  the  sparrow  of  the  field. 

He  searcheth  everywhere;  perchance 

He  knoweth  where  she  bides." 


"  Nay,  I  know  her  not, 
But  at  her  birthday's  tide 
I  find  full  many  a  crumb 
Cast  wide  upon  the  snow." 

I  found  a  chubby  babe, 
Who  toddled  o'er  the  ice,  and  whispered, 
Did  she  know  the  Yule  sprite's  haunt? 
And  she  but  turneth  solemn  eyes  to  me 
And  wags  her  golden  head. 

I  flitted  me  from  house  to  shack, 
And  ever  missed  the  rogue ; 


THE  POETRY 

But  surely  she  had  left  her  sign 

To  bid  me  on  to  search. 

And  I  did  weary  of  my  task 

And  put  my  hopes  to  rest, 

And  slept  me  on  the  eve  afore  her  birth, 

Full  sure  to  search  anew  at  morn. 


And  then  the  morning  broke; 

And  e'er  mine  eyes  did  op£, 

I  fancied  me  a  scarlet  sprite, 

With  wings  of  green  and  scepter  of  a  mistletoe, 

Did  bid  me  wake,  and  whispered  me 

To  look  me  to  my  heart. 

Soft-nestled,  warm,  I  found  her  resting  there. 

Guard  me  lest  I  tell  ; 

But,  heart  o'erfull  of  loving, 

Thee'lt  surely  spill  good  cheer! 

The  following  week,  without  request,  she 
gave  this  New  Year's  poem,  remarkable  for 
the  novelty  of  its  treatment  of  a  much  worn 
theme  : 

The  year  hath  sickened  ; 
And  dawning  day  doth  show  his  withering  ; 
And  Death  hath  crept  him  closer  on  each  hour. 
The  crying  hemlock  shaketh  in  its  grief. 


102  PATIENCE  WORTH 

The  smiling  spring  hath  hollowed  it  to  age, 

And  golden  grain-stalks  fallen 

O'er  the  naked  breast  of  earth. 

The  year's  own  golden  locks 

Have  fallen,  too,  or  whitened, 

Where  they  still  do  hold. 

And  do  I  sorrow  me  ? 
Nay,  I  do  speed  him  on, 
For  precious  pack  he  beareth 
To  the  land  of  passing  dreams. 

I've  bundled  pain  and  wishing 
'Round  with  deeds  undone, 
And  packed  the  loving  o'  my  heart 
With  softness  of  thine  own ; 
And  plied  his  pack  anew 
With  loss  and  gain,  to  add 
The  cup  of  bitter  tears  I  shed 
O'er  nothings  as  I  passed. 

Old  year  and  older  years — 

My  friends,  my  comrades  on  the  road  below- 

I  fain  would  greet  ye  now, 

And  bid  ye  Godspeed  on  your  ways. 

I  watch  ye  pass,  and  read 
The  aged  visages  of  each. 


THE  POETRY  103 

I  love  ye  well,  and  count  ye  o'er 
In  fearing  lest  I  lose  e'en  one  of  you. 
And  here  the  brother  of  you,  every  one, 
Lies  smitten! 

But  as  dear  I'll  love  him 
When  the  winter's  moon  doth  sink ; 
And  like  the  watery  eye  of  age 
Doth  close  at  ending  of  his  day. 
And  I  shall  flit  me  through  his  dreams 
And  cheer  him  with  my  loving ; 
And  last  within  the  pack  shall  put 
A  Hope  and  speed  him  thence. 

And  bow  me  to  the  New. 

A  friend  mayhap,  but  still  untried. 

And  true,  ye  say? 

But  ne'er  hath  proven  sol 

Old  year,  I  love  thee  well, 

And  bid  thee  farewell  with  a  sigh. 

One  who  reads  these  poems  with  thoughtful- 
ness  must  be  impressed  by  a  number  of  attri- 
butes which  make  them  notable,  and,  in  some 
respects,  wholly  unique.  First  of  all  is  the 
absence  of  conventionality,  coupled  with  skill 


104.  PATIENCE  WORTH 

in  construction,  in  phrasing,  in  the  compound- 
ing of  words,  in  the  application  to  old  words  of 
new  or  unusual  but  always  logical  meanings,  in 
the  maintenance  of  rhythm  without  monotony. 
Next  is  the  absolute  purity,  with  the  sometimes 
archaic  quality,  of  the  English*.  It  is  the 
language  of  Shakespeare,  of  Marlowe,  of 
Fletcher,  of  Jonson  and  Drayton,  except  that 
it  presents  Saxon  words  or  Saxon  prefixes 
which  had  already  passed  out  of  literary  use  in 
their  time,  while  on  the  other  hand  it  avoids 
nearly  all  the  words  derived  directly  from 
other  languages  that  were  habitually  used  by 
those  great  writers.  There  is  rarely  a  word 
that  is  not  of  Anglo-Saxon  or  Norman  birth. 
Nor  are  there  any  long  words.  All  of  these 
compositions  are  in  words  of  one,  two  and 
three  syllables,  very  seldom  one  of  four — no 
"  multitudinous  seas  incarnadine."  Among 
the  hundreds  of  words  of  Patience  Worth's  in 
this  chapter  there  are  only  two  of  four  syllables 
and  less  than  fifty  of  three  syllables.  Fully 
95  per  cent  of  her  works  are  in  words  of  one 
and  two  syllables.  In  what  other  writing,  an- 


THE  POETRY  105 

cient  or  modern,  the  Bible  excepted,  can  this 
simplicity  be  found? 

But  the  most  impressive  attribute  of  these 
poems  is  the  weirdness  of  them,  an  intangible 
quality  that  defies  definition  or  location,  but 
which  envelops  and  permeates  all  of  them. 
One  may  look  in  vain  through  the  works  of  the 
poets  for  anything  with  which  to  compare 
them.  They  are  alike  in  the  essential  features 
of  all  poetry,  and  yet  they  are  unalike.  There 
is  something  in  them  that  is  not  in  other 
poetry.  In  the  profusion  of  their  metaphor 
there  is  an  etherealness  that  more  closely  re- 
sembles Shelley,  perhaps,  than  any  other  poet; 
but  the  beauty  of  Shelley's  poems  is  almost 
wholly  in  their  diction :  there  is  in  him  no  pro- 
fundity of  thought.  In  these  poems  there  is 
both  beauty  and  depth — and  something  else. 


THE  PROSE 

"Word  meeteth  word,  and  at  touch  o*  me,  doth 
spell  to  thee." — PATIENCE  WORTH. 

STRICTLY  speaking,  there  is  no  prose  in  the 
compositions  of  Patience  Worth.  That  which 
I  have  here  classified  as  prose,  lacks  none  of 
the  essential  elements  of  poetry,  except  a  con- 
tinuity of  rhythm.  The  rhythm  is  there,  the 
iambic  measure  which  she  favors  being  fairly 
constant,  but  it  is  broken  by  sentences  and 
groups  of  sentences  that  are  not  metrical,  and 
while  it  would  not  be  difficult  to  arrange  most 
of  this  matter  in  verse  form,  I  am  inclined  to 
think  that  to  the  majority  it  will  read  smoother 
and  with  greater  ease  as  prose.  Nevertheless, 
as  will  be  seen,  it  is  poetry.  The  diction  is 
wholly  of  that  order,  and  it  is  filled  with  strik- 
ingly vivid  and  agreeable  imagery.  There  is, 
however,  this  distinction:  most  of  the  matter 

107 


108  PATIENCE  WORTH 

here  classed  as  prose  is  dramatic  in  form  and 
treatment,  and  each  composition  tells  a  story 
— a  story  with  a  definite  and  well-constructed 
plot,  dealing  with  real  and  strongly  individ- 
ualized people,  and  mingling  humor  and 
pathos  with  much  effectiveness.  They  bring  at 
once  a  smile  to  the  face  and  a  tear  to  the  eye. 
They  differ,  too,  from  the  poetry,  in  that  they 
have  little  or  no  apparent  spiritual  signifi- 
cance. They  are  stories,  beautiful  stories,  un- 
like anything  to  be  found  in  the  literature  of 
any  country  or  any  time,  but,  except  in  the 
shadowy  figure  of  "  The  Stranger,"  they  do 
not  rise  above  the  things  of  earth.  That  is  not 
to  say,  however,  that  they  are  not  spiritual  in 
the  intellectual  or  emotional  sense  of  the  word, 
as  distinguished  from  the  soul  relation. 

At  the  end  of  an  evening  a  year  and  a  half 
after  Patience  began  her  work,  she  said:  "  Thy 
hearth  is  bright.  I  fain  would  knit  beside  its 
glow  and  spinn  a  wordy  tale  betimes." 

At  the  next  sitting  she  began  the  "  wordy 
tale."  Up  to  that  time  she  had  offered  noth- 
ing in  prose  form  but  short  didactic  pieces,. 


THE  PROSE  109 

such  as  will  appear  in  subsequent  chapters  of 
this  book,  and  the  circle  was  lost  in  astonish- 
ment at  the  unfolding  of  this  story,  so  different 
in  form  and  spirit  from  anything  she  had  pre- 
viously given. 

Her  stories  are,  as  already  stated,  dramatic 
in  form.  Indeed  they  are  condensed  dramas. 
After  a  brief  descriptive  introduction  or  pro- 
logue, all  the  rest  is  dialogue,  and  the  scenes 
are  shifted  without  explanatory  connection,  as 
in  a  play.  In  the  story  of  "  The  Fool  and  the 
Lady  "  which  follows,  the  fool  bids  adieu  to  the 
porter  of  the  inn,  and  in  the  next  line  begins  a 
conversation  with  Lisa,  whom  he  meets,  as  the 
context  shows,  at  some  point  on  the  road  to  the 
tourney.  It  is  the  change  from  the  first  to 
the  second  act  or  scene,  but  no  stage  directions 
came  from  the  board,  no  marks  of  division  or 
change  of  scene,  nor  names  of  persons  speak- 
ing, except  as  indicated  in  the  context.  In  re- 
producing these  stories,  no  attempt  has  been 
made  to  put  them  completely  in  the  dramatic 
form  for  which  they  were  evidently  designed, 
the  desire  being  to  present  them  as  nearly  as 


110  PATIENCE  WORTH 

possible  as  they  were  received;  but  to  mate 
them  clearer  to  the  reader  the  characters  are 
identified,  and  shift  of  scene  or  time  has  been 
indicated. 


THE  FOOL  AND  THE  LADY 

AND  there  it  lay,  asleep.  A  mantle,  gray  as 
monk's  cloth,  its  covering.  Dim-glowing 
tapers  shine  like  glowflies  down  the  narrow 
winding  streets.  The  sounds  of  early  morn- 
ing creep  through  the  thickened  veil  of  heavy 
mist,  like  echoes  of  the  day  afore.  The  wind  is 
toying  with  the  threading  smoke,  and  still  it 
clingeth  to  the  chimney  pot. 

There  stands,  beyond  the  darkest  shadow, 
the  Inn  of  Falcon  Feather,  her  sides  becracked 
with  sounding  of  the  laughter  of  the  king  and 
gentlefolk,  who  barter  song  and  story  for  the 
price  of  ale.  Her  windows  sleep  like  heavy- 
lidded  eyes,  and  her  breath  doth  reek  with 
wine,  last  drunk  by  a  merry  party  there. 

The  lamp,  now  -blacked  and  dead,  could 
boast  to  ye  of  part  to  many  an  undoing  of  the 
unwary.  The  roof,  o'er-hanging  and  be- 

peaked,  doth  'mind  ye  of  a  sleeper  in  his  cap. 

in 


112  PATIENCE  WORTH 

The  mist  now  rises  like  a  curtain,  and  over 
yonder  steeple  peeps  the  sun,  his  face  washed 
fresh  in  the  basin  of  the  night.  His  beams  now 
light  the  dark  beneath  the  palsied,  stair,  and  rag 
and  straw  doth  heave  to  belch  forth  its  bag- 
gage for  the  night. 


(Fool)  "Eh,  gad!  'Tis  morn,  Beppo. 
Come,  up,  ye  vermin;  laugh  and  prove  thou  art 
the  fool's.  An  ape  and  jackass  are  wearers  of 
the  cap  and  bells.  Thou  wert  fashioned  with 
a  tail  to  wear  behind,  and  I  to  spin  a  tale  to 
leave  but  not  to  wear.  For  the  sayings  of  the 
fool  are  purchased  by  the  wise.  My  crooked 
back  and  pegs  are  purses — the  price  to  buy  my 
gown;  but  better  far,  B*eppo,  to  hunch  and  yet 
to  peer  into  the  clouds,  than  be  as  strong  as 
knights  are  wont  to  be,  and  belly,  like  a  snake, 
amongst  the  day's  bright  hours. 

"  Here,  eat  thy  crust.  'Tis  funny-bread,  the 
earnings  of  a  fool. 

"  I  looked  at  Lisa  as  she  rode  her  mount  at 
yesternoon,  and  saw  her  skirt  the  road  with 
anxious  eyes.  Dost  know  for  whom  she 


THE  PROSE 

sought,  Beppo?  Not  me,  who,  breathless, 
watched  behind  a  flowering  bush  to  hide  my 
ugliness.  Now  laugh,  Beppo,  and  prove  thou 
art  the  fool's! 

"  But  'neath  these  stripes  of  color  I  did  feel 
new  strength,  and  saw  me  strided  on  a  black 
beside  her  there.  And,  Beppo,  knave,  thou 
didst  but  rattle  at  thy  chain,  and  lo,  the  shrink- 
ing of  my  dream! 

"  But  we  do  limp  quite  merrily,  and  could 
we  sing  our  song  in  truer  measure — thou  the 
mimic,  and  I  the  fool?  Thine  eyes  hold  more 
for  me  than  all  the  world,  since  hers  do  see  me 
not. 

"  We  two  together  shall  flatten  'neath  the 
tree  in  yonder  field  and  ride  the  clouds,  Beppo, 
I  promise  ye,  at  after  hour  of  noon. 

"  See!  Tonio  has  slid  the  shutter's  bolt! 
I'll  spin  a  song  and  bart  him  for  a  sup." 

(Tonio)  "  So,  baggage,  thou  hast  slept 
aneath  the  smell  thou  lovest  best!  " 

(Fool)  "  Oh,  morrow,  Tonio.  The  smell 
is  weak  as  yester's  unsealed  wine.  My  tank 


114.  PATIENCE  WORTH 

doth  tickle  with  the  dust  of  rust,  and  yet  me- 
thinks  thou  would'st  see  my  slattern  stays  to 
rattle  like  dry  bones,  to  please  thee.  See, 
Beppo  cryeth!  Fetch  me  then  a  cup  that  I 
may  catch  the  drops — or,  here,  I'll  milk  the 
dragon  o'er  thy  door! " 

(Tonio)  "Thou  scrapple!  Come  within. 
'Tis  he  who  loveth  not  the  fool  who  doth  hate 
his  God." 

(Fool)  "  I'm  loth  to  leave  my  chosen  com- 
pany. Come,  Beppo,  his  words  are  hard,  but 
we  do  know  his  heart. 

"A  health  to  thee,  Antonio.  Put  in  thy 
wine  one  taste  of  thy  heart's  brew  and  I  need 
not  wish  ye  well. 

"  To  her,  Beppo.    Come,  dip  and  take  a  lick. 

"  Tonio,  hast  heard  that  at  a  time  not  set 
as  yet  the  tournament  will  be?  Who  think 
ye  rides  the  King's  lance  and  weareth  Lisa's 
colors?  Blue,  Tonio,  and  gold,  the  heavens' 
garb — stop,  Beppo,  thou  meddling  pest! 
Antonio,  I  swear  those  bits  of  cloth  are  but 
patches  I  have  pilfered  from  the  ragheap 
adown  the  alleyway.  I  knew  not  they  were 


THE  PROSE  115 

blue.  And  this  is  but  a  tassel  dropt  from  off 
a  lance  at  yester's  ride.  I  knew  not  of  its 
tinselled  glint,  I  swear! 

"  So,  thou  dost  laugh?  Ah,  Beppo,  see,  he 
laughs!  And  we  too,  eh?  But  do  we  laugh 
the  same?  Come,  jump!  Thy  pulpit  is  my 
hump.  Aday,  Antonio! " 

(Antonio)  "  Aday,  thou  fool,  and  would  I 
had  the  wisdom  of  thy  ape." 

(On  the  Road  to  the  Tournament.) 

(Lisa)    "Aday,  fool!" 

(Fool)  "  Ah,  lady  fair,  hath  lost  the  silver 
of  thy  laugh,  and  dost  thee  wish  me  then  to 
fetch  it  thee?" 

(Lisa)  "  Yea,  jester.  Thou  speaketh  wise- 
ly; for  may  I  ripple  laughter  from  a  sorry 
heart?  Now  tease  me,  then." 

(Fool)  "A  crooked  laugh  would  be  thy 
gift  should  I  tease  it  with  a  crooked  tale;  and, 
lady,  didst  thee  e'er  behold  a  crooked  laugh — 

one  which  holds  within  its  crook  a  tear?  " 

i 

(Lisa)  "  Oh,  thou  art  in  truth  a  fool.  I'd 
bend  the  crook  and  strike  the  tear  away." 


116  PATIENCE  WORTH 

(Fool)  "  Aye,  lady,  so  thou  wouldst.  But 
thou  hast  ne'er  yet  found  thy  lot  to  bear  a 
crook  held  staunch  within  His  hand!  Spring 
rain  would  be  thy  tears — a  balm  to  buy  fresh 
beauties.  And  the  fool?  Ah,  his  do  dry  in 
dust,  e'en  before  they  fall! " 

(Lisa)  "  Pish,  jester,  thy  tears  would  paint 
thy  face  to  crooked  lines,  and  thee  wouldst 
laugh  to  see  the  muck.  My  heart  doth  truly 
sorry.  Hast  heard  the  King  hath  promised  me 
as  wages  for  the  joust?  And  thee  dost  know 
who  rideth  'gainst  my  chosen?  " 

(Fool)  "  Aye,  lady,  the  crones  do  wag,  and 
I  do  promise  ye  they  wear  their  necks  be- 
cricked  to  see  his  palfrey  pass.  They  do  tell 
me  that  his  sumpter-cloth  doth  trail  like  a 
ladies'  robe." 

(Lisa)  "  Yea,  fool,  and  pledge  me  thy 
heart  to  tell  it  not,  I  did  broider  at  its  hem  a 
thrush  with  mine  own  tress — a  song  to  cheer 
his  way,  a  wing  to  speed  him  on." 

(Fool)  "  Hear,  Beppo,  how  she  prates! 
Would  I  were  a  posey  wreath  and  Beppo  here 


THE  PROSE  117 

a  fashioner  of  song.  We  then  would  lend  us  to 
thy  hand  to  offer  as  a  token.  But  thou  dost 
know  a  fool  and  ape  are  ever  but  a  fool  and 
ape.  I'm  off  to  chase  thy  truant  laugh.  Who 
cometh  there?  The  dust  doth  rise  like  storm- 
cloud  along  the  road  ahead,  and  'tis  shot  with 
glinting.  Oh,  I  see  the  mantling  flush  of 
morning  put  to  shame  by  the  flushing  of  thy 
cheek!  See,  he  doth  ride  with  helmet  ope.  Its 
golden  bars  do  clatter  at  the  jolt,  and — but 
stop,  Beppo,  she  heareth  not!  We,  poor  beg- 
gars, thee  and  me — an  ape  with  a  tail  and  a 
fool  with  a  heart! 

"  See,  Beppo,  I  did  tear  a  rose  to  tatters  but 
to  fling  its  petals  'neath  her  feet.  They  tell  me 
that  his  lance  doth  bear  a  ribband  blue  and  a 
curling  lock  of  gold — and  yet  he  treads  the 
earth!  Let's  then  away! 

The  world  may  sorrow 

But  the  fool  must  laugh. 

'Tis  blessed  grain 

That  hath  no  chaff. 

To  love  an  ape 

Is  but  to  ape  at  love. 


118  PATIENCE  WORTH 

I  sought  a  hand, 

And  found — a  glove! 


"  Beppo,  laugh,  and  prove  thyself  the  fool's! 
I  fain  would  feel  the  yoke,  lest  I  step  too  high. 

"  Come,  we'll  seek  the  shelt'ring  tree.  I've 
in  my  kit  a  bit  of  curd.  Thy  conscience  need 
not  prick.  I  swear  that  Tonio,  the  rogue,  did 
see  me  stow  it  there! 

"  Ah,  me,  'tis  such  a  home  for  fools,  the 
earth.  And  they  that  are  not  fools  are  apes. 

"  I  see  the  crowd  bestringing  'long  the  road, 
and  yonder  clarion  doth  bid  the  riders  come. 
Well,  Beppo,  do  we  ride?  Come,  chere,  we 
may  tramp  our  crooked  path  and  ride  astraddle 
of  a  cloud. 

"  She  doth  love  him,  then;  and  even  now  the 
horn  doth  sound  anew — and  she  the  prize! 

"  I  call  the  God  above  to  see  the  joke  that 
fate  hath  played ;  for  I  do  swear,  Beppo,  that 
when  he  rides  he  carries  on  his  lance-point  this 
heart. 

"  I  fret  me  here,  but  dare  I  see  the  play? 
Yea,  'tis  a  poor  fool  that  loveth  not  his  jest. 


THE  PROSE  119 

"  I  go,  Beppo;  I  know  not  why,  save  I  do 
love  her  so. 

"  I'll  bear  my  hunch  like  a  badge  of  His 
colors  and  I  shall  laugh,  Beppo,  shall  laugh  at 
losing.  He  loves  me  well,  else  why  didst  send 
me  thee? 

"  The  way  seems  over  long. 

"  They  parry  at  the  ring!  I  see  her  veil  to 
float  like  cloud  upon  the  breeze. 

"  She  sees  me  not.  I  wonder  that  she  hear- 
eth  not  the  thumping  of  my  heart.  My  eyes  do 
mist.  Beppo,  look  thou!  Ah,  God,  to  see 
within  her  eyes  the  look  of  thine! 

"  They  rank !  And  hell  would  cool  my  brow, 
I  swear.  Beppo,  as  thou  lovest  me,  press 
sorely  on  my  hump!  Her  face,  Beppo,  it 
swayeth  everywhere,  as  a  garden  thick  with 
bloom — a  lily,  white  and  glistening  with  a  rain 
of  tears.  My  heart  hath  torn  asunder,  that  I 
know. 

"  The  red  knight  now  doth  cast!  O  Heaven 
turn  his  lance ! 

"'Tis  put! 

"And   now   the    blue   and   gold!     Wait, 


120  PATIENCE  WORTH 

brother  ape!  Hold,  in  the  name  of  God! 
Straight!  'Tistie!  Can  I  but  stand? 

"  I— ah,  lady,  he  doth  ride  full  well.  May  I 
but  steady  thee?  My  legs  are  wobbled  but — 
my  hand,  dear  lady,  lest  ye  sink. 

("  Beppo,  'tis  true  she  seeth  me!) 

'  Thy  hand  is  cold.  I  wager  you  he  wins. 
He  puts  a  right  too  high.  Thy  thrush  is  sing- 
ing; hear  ye  not  his  song?  His  wing  doth  flut- 
ter even  now.  Ah,  he  is  fitting  thee 

"  I  do  but  laugh  to  feel  the  tickle  of  a  feath- 
ering jest.  An  age  before  he  puts!  A  miss! 
A  tie !  Ah,  lady,  should'st  thee  win  I'll  laugh 
anew  and  even  then  will  laugh  at  what  thee 
knowest  not. 

'  The  red  knight!  God  weight  his  charger's 
hoof!  (My  God,  Beppo,  she  did  kiss  my 
hand!) 

"He's  off!    Beppo,  cling!" 

(Lisa)  ''  The  fool!  Look  ye,  the  fool  and 
ape!  Oh  heaven  stop  their  flight!  He's  well 
upon  them!  Blind  me,  lest  I  die!  He's 
charged  anew,  but  missed!  What,  did  his 
mantle  fall?  That  shape  that  lieth!  Come! " 


THE  PROSE 

(Lisa,  to  her  knight)  "  So,  thou,  beloved, 
didst  win  me  right!  Where  go  they  with  the 
litter?" 

(Knight)  "  The  fool,  my  lady,  and  a  chat- 
tering ape,  did  tempt  to  jest  a  charger  in  the 
field.  We  found  them  so.  He  lives  but 
barely." 

(Enter  Fool  upon  litter.) 

(Fool)  "  Aday,  my  lady  fair!  And  hast 
thee  lost  the  silver  of  thy  laugh  and  bid  me 
fetch  it  thee?  The  world  doth  hold  but  fools 
and  lovers,  folly  sick." 

(Lisa)  "  His  eye  grows  misty.  Fool,  I 
know  thee  as  a  knave  and  love  thee  as  a  man." 

(Fool)  "  'Tis  but  a  patch,  Beppo,  a  patch 
and  tassel  from  a  lance  .  .  .  but  we  did  ride, 
eh?  Laugh,  Beppo,  and  prove  thou  art  the 
fool's!  I  laugh  anew,  lest  my  friends  should 
know  me  not.  Beppo,  I  dream  of  new  roads, 
but  thou  art  there!  And  I  do  faint,  but 
she  .  .  .  did  kiss  my  hand  .  .  .  Aday  .  .  . 
L— a— d— y." 


Very  soon  after  the  completion  of  this  story 
Patience  began  another  one,  a  Christmas  story, 
a  weird,  mystical  tale  of  medieval  England, 
having  for  its  central  theme  a  "  Stranger  "  who 
is  visible  only  to  Lady  Marye  of  the  Castle. 
The  stranger  is  not  described,  nor  does  he 
speak  a  word,  but  he  is  presumedly  the  Christ. 
There  are  descriptions  of  the  preparations  for 
the  Christmas  feast  at  this  lordly  stronghold 
of  baronial  days,  and  the  coarse  wit  of  the 
castle  servants  and  the  drunken  profanity  of 
their  master,  "  John  the  Peaceful,"  form  a 
vivid  contrast  to  the  ethereal  Lady  Marye  and 
the  simple  love  of  the  herder's  family  at  the 
foot  of  the  hill.  There  are  striking  characters 
and  many  beautiful  lines  in  this  story,  but  it  is 
not  as  closely  woven  nor  as  coherent  in  plot  as 
the  story  of  the  fool  and  the  lady. 


122 


THE  STRANGER 

'TWAS  at  white  season  o'  the  year,  the 
shrouding  o'  spring  and  summerstide. 

Steep,  rugged,  was  the  path,  and  running 
higher  on  ahead  to  turret-topped  and  gated 
castle  o'  the  lordly  state  o'  John  the  Peaceful, 
where  Lady  Marye  whiled  away  the  dragging 
day  at  fingering  the  regal.* 

From  sheltered  niche  she  looked  adown  the 
hillside  stretching  'neath.  The  valley  was  be- 
stir. A  shepherd  chided  with  gentle  word  his 
flock,  and  gentle  folk  did  speak  o'  coming 
Christ-time.  Timon,  the  herder's  hut,  already 
hung  with  bitter  sweets,  and  holly  and  fir 
boughs  set  to  spice  the  air. 

"  Timon,  man,  look  ye  to  the  wee  lambs  well, 
for  winter  promiseth  a  searching  night." 

*  Regal.  A  small  portable  pipe  organ  used  in  the  sixteenth  and 
seventeenth  centuries.  It  was  played  with  one  hand  while  the 
bellows  was  worked  with  the  other. 

123 


PATIENCE  WORTH 

Thus  spake  Leta,  who  stands,  her  babe 
astride  her  hip. 

"  And  come  ye  then  within.  I  have  a  brew 
that  of  a  truth  shall  tickle  at  thy  funny  bone. 
Bring  then  a  bundle  o'  brush  weed  that  we 
may  ply  the  fire.  I  vow  me  thy  boots  are  snow 
carts,  verily! 

"  Hast  seen  the  castle  folk?  And  fetched  ye 
them  the  kids?  They  breathe  it  here  that  the 
boar  they  roast  would  shame  a  heiffer.  All  of 
the  sparing  hours  today  our  Leta  did  sniff  her 
up  the  hill;  nay,  since  the  dawning  she  hath 
spread  her  smock  and  smirked. 

"Leta,  thou  art  such  a  joy!  Thou  canst 
wish  the  winter-painted  bough  to  bloom,  and 
like  the  plum  flowers  falls  the  snow.  Fetch 
thee  a  bowl  and  put  the  bench  to  table-side. 
Thy  sire  wouldst  sup.  Go  now  and  watch 
aside  the  crib.  Perchance  thee'lt  catch  a 
glimpse  o'  heaven  spilled  from  Tina's  dream. 

"  Timon,  man,  tell  me  now  the  doings  o'  the 
day.  I  do  ettle  *  for  a  spicey  tale." 

(Timon)    "  Well,  be  it  so  then,  minx.    I  did 

*  Ettle.     In  this  case,  to  have  a  strong  desire. 


THE  PROSE  125 

fell  the  kids  at  sun-wake,  and  thee'lt  find  the 
skins  aneath  the  cape  I  cast  in  yonder  corner 
there.  And  I  did  catch  a  peep  aslaunch  *  at 
mad  Lady  Marye,  who  did  play  the  pipes  most 
mournfully.  They  tell  me  she  doth  look  a 
straining  to  this  cot  of  ours.  And  what  think 
ye,  Leta?  She  doth  only  smile  when  she  doth 
see  our  wee  one's  curls  to  glint.  And  ever  she 
doth  speak  of  him  who  none  hath  seen.  'Tis 
strange,  think  ye  not?  " 

(Leta)  "  Nay,  Timon,  I  full  oft  do  pause 
and  peer  on  high  to  see  her  at  the  summertide. 
Like  a  swan  she  bendeth,  all  white,  amid  her 
garden  'long  the  lake,  and  even  'tempts  to 
come  adown  the  path  to  us  below.  And  ever 
at  her  heels  the  pea-fowl  struts. 

"  She  ne'er  doth  see  my  beckoning,  but  do 
I  come  with  Tina  at  my  breast  she  doth  smile 
and  wave  and  sway  her  arms  a-cradle-wise. 

"  They  tell,  but  breathlessly,  that  she  doth 
sadly  say  the  Stranger  bideth  here." 

(Timon)    "  I'll  pit  my  patch  'gainst  purse 

*  Aslaunch.     Aslant  or  obliquely.     As  we  would  now  say, '  *  Out 
of  the  corner  of  the  eye." 


126  PATIENCE  WORTH 

o'  gold,  that '  Mad  Marye  '  fitteth  her  as  surely 
as  '  Peaceful  John '  doth  fit  her  sire.  Thee 
knowest  '  peace  '  to  him  is  of  his  cutting,  and 
(  piece  '  doth  patch  his  ripping. 

"  They've  bid  a  feast  at  Christ-night,  and  ye 
shouldst  see  the  stir!  I  fain  would  see  Sir 
John  at  good  dark  on  that  eve,  besmeared  with 
boar  grease  and  soaked  with  ale,  his  mouth 
adrip  with  filth,  and  every  peasant  there  who 
serves  his  bolts  shall  hit.  And  Lady  Marye 
setteth  like  a  lily  under  frost! 

"  Leta,  little  one,  thine  eyes  do  blink  like 
stars  beshadowed  in  a  cloudy  veil.  Come, 
bend  thy  knee  and  slip  away  to  dream !  " 

(Little  Leta  prays)  '  Vast  blue  above, 
wherein  the  angels  hide ;  and  moon,  his  lamp  o' 
love ;  and  cloud  fleece  white — art  thou  the  wool 
to  swaddle  Him?  And  doth  His  mother  bide 
upon  a  star-beam  that  leadeth  her  to  thee?  I 
bless  Thy  name  and  pray  Thee  keep  my  sire  to 
watch  full  well  his  flock.  And  put  a  song  in 
every  coming  day ;  my  Tina's  coo,  and  mother's 
song  at  eve.  Goodnight,  sweet  night !  I  know 
He  watcheth  thee  and  me." 


THE  PROSE 

(Timon)  "He  heareth  thee,  my  Leta. 
Watch  ye  the  star  on  high.  See  ye,  it  winketh 
knowingly.  God  rest  ye,  blest." 

(At  the  Castle.) 

(Lady  Marye)  "  And  I  the  Lady  Marye, 
o'  the  lord's  estate!  Jana,  fetch  me  a  goblet 
that  I  drink." 

(Jana)    "  Aye,  lady.    A  wine,  perchance?  " 

(Lady  Marye)  "  Nay,  for  yester  thou  didst 
fetch  me  wine,  and  I  did  cast  it  here  upon  the 
flags.  Its  stain  thee  still  canst  see.  Shouldst 
thou  fetch  a  goblet  filled  to  brim  with  crystal 
drops,  and  I  should  cast  it  here,  the  greedy 
stone  would  sup  it  up,  and  where  be  then  the 
stain?  Think  ye  the  stone  then  the  wiser  o' 
the  two? 

"  I  but  loosed  my  fancy  from  its  tether  to 
gambol  at  its  will,  and  they  do  credit  me  amiss. 
I  weave  not  with  strand  upon  a  wheel.  'Tis 
not  my  station.  Nay,  I  dally  through  the  day 
with  shuttle-cock  and  regal — a  fitting  play  for 
yonder  babe. 


128  PATIENCE  WORTH 

"  Jana,  peer  ye  to  the  valley  there.  Doth 
see  the  Stranger?  He  knoeketh  at  the  sill  o' 
yonder  cot. 

"  I  saw  him  when  the  cotter  locked  the  sheep 
to  tap  a  straying  ewe  who  lagged,  and  he  did 
enter  as  the  cotter  stepped  within — unbidden, 
Jana,  that  I  swear — and  now  he  knoeketh 
there!" 

(Jana)  "  Nay,  lady,  'tis  but  a  barish  limb 
that  reacheth  o'er  the  door.  The  cotter  heed- 
eth  not,  ye  see." 

(Lady  Mar  ye)  "  I  do  see  him  now  to  enter, 
and  never  did  he  turn!  Jana,  look  ye  now! 
Doth  still  befriend  a  doubt?  " 

(Jana)  "Come,  lady,  look!  Sirrah  John 
hath  sent  ye  this,  a  posey,  wrought  o'  gold  and 
scented  with  sweet  oils." 

(Lady  Marye)  "  Ah,  Jana,  'tis  a  hateful 
sight  to  me — a  posey  I  may  keep!  Why, 
the  losing  o'  the  blossom  doth  but  make  it 
dear! 

"  Stay!  I  know  thee'lt  say  'twas  proffered 
with  his  love.  But,  Jana,  thou  hast  much  to 
learn.  What,  then,  is  love?  Can  I  then  sort 


THE  PROSE  129 

my  tinder  for  its  building  and  ply  the  glass  to 
start  its  flame?  The  day  is  o'er  full  now  of 
ones  who  tried  the  trade.  Nay,  Jana,  only 
when  He  toucheth  thee  and  bids  thee  come  and 
putteth  to  thy  hand  His  own  doth  love  abide 
with  thee. 

"  Come  to  the  turret,  then.  I  do  find  me 
whetted  for  a  look  within. 

"  How  cool  the  eve !  'Tis  creepy  to  the  mar- 
row. Look  ye  down  the  hillside  there  below. 
See  ye  the  cotter's  taper  burning  there?  How 
white  the  night!  'Tis  put  upon  the  earth  a 
mantling  shroud,  and  sailing  in  the  silver  sky  a 
fairy  boat.  Perchance  it  bringeth  us  the 
Babe. 

"  Jana,  see'st  thou  the  Stranger?  He  now 
doth  count  the  sheep.  Dare  I  trust  him  there? 
I  see  him  fondling  a  lamb  and  he  doth  hold  it 
close  unto  his  breast." 

(Jana)  "  Nay,  lady,  'tis  the  shepherd's  dog 
who  skulketh  now  ahind  the  shelter  wall." 

(Lady  Marye)  "  Ah,  give  me,  spite  o'  this, 
the  power  to  sing  like  Thine  own  bird  who 
swayeth  happily  upon  the  forest  bough  and 


130  PATIENCE  WORTH 

pours  abroad  his  song  where  no  man  heareth 
him. 

"Hear  ye  them  below  within  the  hall? 
They  do  lap  at  swine-broth.  Their  cups  do 
clank.  At  morrow's  eve  they  feast  and  now 
do  need  to  stretch  their  paunches.  Full  often 
have  I  seen  my  ladye  mother's  white  robe 
stained  crimson  for  a  jest,  and  oftener  have  I 
been  gagged  to  swallow  it.  But,  Jana,  I  do 
laugh,  for  the  greatest  jest  is  he  who  walloweth 
in  slime  and  thinketh  him  a  fish." 

(Jana)  "See,  Lady  Marye!  This,  thy 
mother's  oaken  chest,  it  still  doth  bear  a  scent 
o'  her.  And  this,  thy  gown  o'  her  own  fash- 
ioning." 

(Lady  Marye)  "  Yea,  Jana,  and  this  o" 
her,  a  strand  wound  to  a  ball  for  mine  own  cast- 
ing. And  this !  I  tell  thee,  'tis  oft  and  oft  she 
did  press  me  to  her  own  breast  and  chide  me 
with  her  singing  voice:  *  My  Marye,  'tis  a  game 
o'  buff,  this  living  o'  these  days  o'  ours  o'  seek- 
ing happiness.  When  ye  would  catch  the 
rogue  he  flitteth  on/  ' 


THE  PROSE  131 

"  See,  these  spots  o'  yellowed  tears — the 
rusting  of  her  heart  away!  Stay,  Jana,  I'll 
teach  thee  a  trick  o'  tripping,  for  she  full  oft 
did  say  a  heart  could  hide  aneath  a  tripping. 

'  Thee  shouldst  curtsey  so ;  and  spread  thy 
fan.  'Tis  such  a  shield  to  hide  ahind.  Then 
shouldst  thy  heart  to  flutter,  trip  out  its  meas- 
ure, so.  See,  I  do  laugh  me  now — nay,  'tis 
ne'er  a  tear,  Jana,  'tis  the  mist  o'  loving !  Doth 
see  the  moon  hath  joined  the  dance?  Or,  am  I 
swooning?  'Tis  fancy.  See,  the  cotter's  taper 
still  doth  flicker  from  the  shutter.  What's 
then  amiss?  The  stranger,  Jana!  See!  He 
entereth  the  shelter  place!  Come,  I  fear  me 
lest  I  see  too  much?  Lend  me  thy  hand.  I've 
played  the  jane-o-apes  till  the  earth  doth  seem 
awry. 

"  Hear  ye  the  wine-soaked  song,  and  aye, 
the  f eed-drunkened ?  My  sire,  Jana,  my  sire! 
I  do  grow  hateful  of  myself,  but  mark  ye,  at 
the  setting  o'  the  feast  I  do  wage  him  war  at 
words !  A  porridge  pot  doth  brew  for  babes ;  I 
promise  ye  a  full  loaf.  Do  drop  the  curtain 
now,  I  weary  me  with  reasoning." 


PATIENCE  WORTH 


(Morning  at  the  Castle  Gate.) 

(Tito)  "Aho,  within!  Thine  eyes  be- 
gummed  and  this  the  Christ-eve  and  mornin' 
come?  Scatter!  Petro,  stand  ahand!  I  do 
fetch  ye  sucklings  agagged  with  apples  red. 
Ye  gad,  my  mouth  doth  slime!  To  whiff  a 
hungerfull  would  make  the  sages  wag." 

(Petro)  "Amorrow,  Tito.  Thee'lt  wear 
thee  white  as  our  own  Lady  long  afore  ye 
e'en  canst  dip  thy  finger  in  the  drip." 

(Tito)  "  Pst!  Petro,  I  did  steal  the  brain 
and  tung.  Canst  leave  me  have  a  peep  now  to 
the  hall  ?  Jesu  !  What  a  breeder  o'  sore  bellies. 
I'd  pay  my  price  to  heaven  to  rub  Sir  John  a 
briskish  rub  with  mullien  o'er  the  back. 

"  They  do  tell  me  down  below  that  trouble 
bideth  Timon.  His  Tina  layeth  dull  and  Leta 
doth  little  but  mumble  prayer." 

(Petro)  "  Tito,  thee  art  a  chanter  of  sad 
lays  at  this  Christ-time.  Go  thou  to  the 
turret  and  play  ye  at  the  pipes.  Put  thee  the 
sucklings  to  the  kitchen,  aside  the  fire  dogs 
there.  And  Tito,  thee'lt  find  a  pudding  pan 


THE  PROSE 

ahind  the  brushbox.  Go  thee  and  lick  it 
there!" 

(To  Sir  John)  "  Aye,  I  do  come,  my  lord. 
'Tis  but  the  sucklers  come.  I  know  not  where 
in  the  castle  she  doth  bide,  but  hark  ye  and  yell 
surely  hear  the  pipes." 

(Sir  John)  "Bah!  Damn  the  drivelling 
pipes!  I  do  hear  them  late  and  early.  'Tis  a 
fine  bird  for  a  lordly  nest!  Go,  fetch  her  here! 
But  no,  I'd  tweak  her  at  a  vaster  sitting.  Get 
thee,  thou  grunting  swine!  And  take  this  as 
thy  Christ-gift.  I'd  deal  thee  thrice  the  meas- 
ure wert  not  to  save  these  lordly  legs.  Here, 
fetch  me  a  courser.  I'd  ride  me  to  the  hounds. 
And  strip  him  of  his  foot  cloth,  that  I  do  waste 
me  not  a  blow.  Dost  like  the  smart?  Or  shall 
I  ply  it  more?  Thee'lt  dance  to  tune,  or  damn 
ye,  run  from  cuts! 

"  Ho,  Timon,  how  goes  it  with  the  brat? 
The  world's  o'erfull  o'  cattle  now! " 

(Timon)  "Yea,  sire,  so  did  my  Leta  say 
when  she  did  see  thee  come.  'Tis  with  our 
Tina  as  a  bird  behovered  in  the  day.  Aday, 
and  God  forgive  thee." 


134  PATIENCE  WORTH 

(In  Lady  Marye's  Chamber.) 

(Lady  Marye)  "  Jana,  morn  hath  come. 
'Tis  Christ-tide  and  He  not  here!  My  limbs 
do  fail,  and  how  do  I  then  to  stand  me  thro' 
the  day?  The  feast,  the  feast,  yea,  the  feast! 
The  day  doth  break  thro'  fog  in  truth! 

"  My  mother's  bridal  robe!  Go,  Jana,  fetch 
it  me,  and  one  small  holly  bough.  Lend  me  a 
hand.  I  fain  would  see  the  cot. 

"  See  thou!  The  sun  doth  love  it,  too,  and 
chooseth  him  to  rise  him  o'er  its  roof!  Hath 
thee  seen  the  herder  yet  to  buckle  loose  the 
shelter  place  ?  And,  Jana,  did  all  seem  well  to 
thee?  Nay,  the  Stranger,  Jana!  See,  he  still 
doth  hold  the  lamb!  *  My  Marye,  'tis  a  game 
o'  buff,  this  living  o'  these  days  o'  ours.'  In 
truth,  'tis  put. 

"  Jana,  I  did  dream  me  like  a  babe  the  night 
hours  through;  a  dream  so  sweet,  o'  vast  blue 
above  wherein  the  angels  hid,  and  I  did  see  the 
Christ-child  swaddled  in  a  cloud;  and  Mary, 
maid  of  sorrows,  led  to  him  adown  a  silver 
beam. 


THE  PROSE  135 

% 

"  Then  thee  dost  deem  my  fitful  fancy  did 
but  play  me  false?  Stay  thou,  my  tears,  and, 
heart  o'  me,  who  knoweth  He  doth  watch  o'er 
thee  and  me? 

"  Her  robe!  Ah,  Fancy,  'tis  thy  right  that 
thou  art  ever  doubted.  For  thou  art  a  con- 
jurer, a  trickster,  verily.  What  dramming* 
joy  didst  thee  then  offer  her? 

'  Thou  cloud  of  billowed  lace,  a  shield  be- 
fitting her  pure  heart!  And  I  the  flowering 
of  the  bud!  Hear  me,  all  this  o'  her!  I  l6ve 
thee  well,  and  should  the  day  but  offer  a  bitter 
draft  to  quaff,  'tis  but  to  whet  me  for  a  sweeter 
drink.  And  mother,  heart  o'  me,  hearken  and 
do  believe.  I  love  my  sire,  Sir  John. 

"  Come,  Jana.  Hear  ye  the  carolers  ?  Their 
song  doth  filter  thro'  my  heart  and  lighten  it. 
The  snow  doth  tweak  aneath  their  feet  like 
pipes  to  'company  them.  Cast  ye  a  bit  o'  holly 
and  a  mistletoe. 

'  The  feasters  come  to  whet  them  with  a 
pudding  whiff.  See,  my  sire  doth  ride  him  up 
the  hill  and  o'er  his  saddle  front  a  fallow  deer. 

*  Obsolete  form  of  "  champing."     Used  here  figuratively. 


136  PATIENCE  WORTH 

Hear  thee  the  cheering  that  he  comes!  Her 
loved,  my  Jana,  and  her  heart  doth  beat 
through  me! 

"  Christ-love  to  thee,  my  sire!  Dost  hear 
me  here?  And  I  do  pledge  it  thee  upon  His 
precious  drops  caught  by  the  holly  tree.  He 
seeth  not,  but  she  doth  know !  " 

(Christmas  Eve.) 

(Jana)  "  My  lady,  who  doth  come  a  knock- 
ing at  the  door?  'Tis  Petro,  come  to  bid  ye  to 
the  feast." 

(Petro)  "  The  candles  are  long  since  lit 
and  Sirrah  John  hath  wearyed  him  with  jest. 
The  feasting  hath  not  yet  begun,  for  he  doth 
wait  thee  to  drink  a  health  to  feasters  in  the 
hall." 

(Lady  Mar  ye)  "  Yea,  Petro,  say  unto  my 
sire,  the  Lady  Marye  comes.  And  say  ye 
more,  she  bids  the  feasters  God-love.  And  say 
thee  more,  she  doth  bear  the  blessings  of  her 
Lady  Mother  who  wisheth  God's  love  to  them 
all.  And  fetch  ye  candle  trees  to  scores,  and 
fetch  the  dulcimer  and  one  who  knocketh  on  its 


THE  PROSE  137 

strings,  and  let  him  patter  forth  a  lively  tune, 
for  Lady  Marye  comes. 

"  Jana,  look  ye  once  again  to  the  valley 
there.  The  tapers  burn  not  for  Christ-night. 
Nay,  a  sickly  gleam,  and  see,  the  Stranger,  how 
he  doth  hold  the  lamb!  And  o'er  his  face  a 
smile — or  do  my  eyes  beblur,  and  doth  he 
weep?" 

(Jana)  "  Nay,  lady,  all  is  dark.  'Tis  but 
the  whitish  snow  and  shadow  pitted  by  the 
tapers'  light." 

(Lady  Marye)  "  Fetch  me  then  my  fan. 
I  go  to  meet  my  Lord.  Doth  hear?  Already 
they  do  play.  I  point  me  thus,  and  trip  my 
heart's  full  measure." 

(In  the  Hall] 

"; 

(Sir  John)  "  So,  lily-lip,  thee'lt  scratch! 
Thy  silky  paw  hath  claws,  eh?  Egad!  A 
phantom!  A  ghoulish  trick!  My  head  doth 
split  and  where  my  tung?  Get  ye!  Why  sit 
like  grinning  asses!  And  where  thy  tungs? 
My  God!  What  scent  o'  graves  she  beareth 
with  that  shroud! " 


138  PATIENCE  WORTH 

(Lady  Mar  ye)  "  God  cheer,  my  lord,  and 
doth  my  tripping  suit  thee  well?  These  flags 
are  but  my  heart  and  hers,  and  do  I  bruise  them 
well  for  thee?  Ah,  aha!  See,  I  do  spread  my 
fan.  To  shield  my  tears,  ye  think?  Nay,  were 
they  to  fall  like  Mayday's  rain  and  thee  wert 
buried  'neath  a  stone,  as  well  then  could'st  thou 
see !  And  yet  I  love  thee  well.  See  thee,  my 
sire,  I  pour  this  to  thee! 

"  Look  ye,  good  people  at  the  feast ;  the  boar 
is  ready  to  slip  its  bones. 

(Aside)  "  God,  send  Thy  mantling  love 
here  to  Thine  own!  For  should  I  judge,  when 
Thou  I  know  dost  love  the  saint  and  sinner  as 
Thine  own? 

"  To  thee,  my  sire,  to  thee! " 


And  gusted  wind  did  flick  the  tapers  out  and 
they  did  hear  her  murmuring  "  The  Stranger! 
He  doth  bid  me  come!  " 

And  to  this  day  they  tell  that  Lady  Marye 
cast  the  wine  into  a  suckler's  mouth  and  never 
did  she  drink! 


THE  PROSE  139 

"  By  all  the  saints !  Do  thee  go  and  search !  " 
Thus  spake  her  sire,  Sir  John.  And  all  the 
long  night  thro'  the  torches  gleamed,  but  all  in 
vain.  And  they  do  say  that  Sirrah  John  did 
shake  him  in  a  chilling  and  flee  him  to  a  friar, 
while  still  the  search  did  last. 

(In  Timon  s  Cot.) 

(Leta)  "  Timon,  waken  ye!  Our  Leta  still 
doth1  court  her  dreams  and  I  do  weary  me. 
The  long  night  thro'  the  feasters  cried  them 
thro'  the  hills  and  none  but  Him  could  shield 
our  Tina  from  their  din. 

'  Take  heart,  my  lad,  I  fear  me  yet  to  look 
within  the  crib.  Hold  thou  my  hand,  man. 
Nay,  not  yet !  Come,  waken  Leta  that  she  then 
do  feed  thy  lambs." 

(Timon)  "Come,  Leta,  wake!  The  sun 
hath  tipped  the  crown  o'  yonder  hill  and  spread 
a  blush  adown  her  snow-white  side." 

(Leta)  "  Yea,  sire.  And  Tina,  how  be 
she?" 

(Timon)    "  A  fairy,  sleeping,  Tad." 

(Leta)    "  Ah,  sire,  but  I  did  dream  the  dark 


140  PATIENCE  WORTH 

o'  yesterday  away.  And,  mother,  she  doth 
strain  unto  the  sun!  I  see  her  eyes  be-glist- 
ened.  See,  the  frost-cart  dumped  beside  our 
door,  and  look  ye!  he,  the  Frost  man,  put  a 
cap  upon  the  chimney  pot.  I'll  fetch  a  brush 
and  fan  away  his  cloak.  My  Christ-gift,  it 
would  be  my  Tina's  smile.  She  did  know  me 
not  at  late  o'  night;  think  ye  it  were  the  dark? 
Stay,  sire!  I'll  cast  the  straw  and  put  the 
sheep  aright!"  (Exit.) 

(Timon)  "  My  Leta,  come!  Thy  Christ- 
gift  bideth  o'er  our  Tina's  lips  and  she  doth 
coo!" 

(Leta)  '  Timon,  call  aloud,  that  she  hear- 
eththee.  Leta!  Leta!  Little  one!  Dost  hear 
thy  sire  to  call?  Why,  what's  amiss  with  thee? 
Thy  staring  eyes,  my  child!  Speak  thou! " 

(Leta)  "Sh-e-e-e!  Sire,  His  mother's 
come!  And,  ah,  my  heart!  All  white  she  be 
an'  crushed  unto  her  breast  a  holly  bough,  and 
one  white  arm  doth  circle  o'er  a  lamb!  See, 
sire,  the  snow  did  drift  it  thro'  and  weave  a 
fairy  robe  to  cover  her." 


THE  PROSE  141 

(Timon)  "Who  leaveth  by  the  door;  a 
stranger? " 

(Leta)    "  Nay,  He  bideth  here." 

(Timon)  "  The  Lady  Marye,  on  my  soul! 
Leta,  drop  ye  here  thy  tears,  for  madness  bid- 
eth loosed  upon  the  earth !  And  shouldst " 

(Leta)    "  Nay,  sire!    Who  cometh  there?  " 

And  searchers  there  did  find  the  Lady 
Marye,  dead,  amid  the  lambs  and  snow — a 
flowering  o'  the  rose  upon  a  bush  o'  thorn. 

And  hark  ye!  At  the  time  when  winter's 
blast  doth  sound,  thee'lt  hear  the  wailing  o'  the 
Lady  Marye's  pipes,  and  know  the  Stranger 
bideth  o'er  the  earth. 


THE  two  dramatic  stories  presented  here 
were  but  a  paving  of  the  way  for  larger  work. 
"  The  Stranger  "  had  been  hardly  completed 
when  Patience  announced,  "  Thee'lt  sorry 
at  the  task  I  set  thee  next."  And  then  she 
began  the  construction  of  a  drama  that  in  its 
delivery  consumed  the  time  of  the  sittings  for 
several  weeks,  and  it  contained  when  finished 
some  20,000  words.  It  is  divided  into  six  acts, 
each  with  a  descriptive  prologue,  and  three  of 
the  acts  have  two  scenes  each,  making  nine 
scenes  in  all.  It,  like  the  two  shorter  sketches, 
is  medieval  in  scene,  and  the  pictures  which  it 
presents  of  the  customs  and  costumes  and  man- 
ners of  the  thirteenth  or  fourteenth  century 
(the  period  is  not  definitely  indicated)  are 
amazingly  vivid.  It  has  a  somewhat  intricate 
plot,  which  is  carried  forward  rapidly  and  its 
strands  skillfully  interwoven  until  the  nature 
of  the  fabric  is  revealed  in  the  sixth  act.  This 
play  is  much  more  skillfully  constructed  in 
respect  of  stage  technique  than  the  two  play- 

142 


THE  PROSE  143 

lets  that  preceded  it,  and  it  could,  no  doubt, 
be  produced  upon  the  stage  with  perhaps  a 
little  alteration  to  adapt  it  to  modern  condi- 
tions. Some  idea  of  its  beauty,  its  sprightli- 
ness  and  its  humor  may  be  obtained  from  the 
prologue  to  the  first  act,  which  follows: 

Wet  earth,  fresh  trod. 

Highway  cut  to  wrinkles  with  cart  wheels 
born  in  with  o'erloading.  A  flank  o'  daisy 
flowers  and  stones  rolled  o'er  in  blanketing  o' 
moss.  Brown  o'  young  oak-leaves  shows  soft 
amid  the  green.  Adown  a  steep  unto  the  vale, 
hedged  in  by  flowering  fruit  and  threaded 
through  with  streaming  silver  o'  the  brook, 
where  rushes  shiver  like  to  swishing  o'  a  lady's 
silk. 

Moss-lipped  log  doth  case  the  spring  who 
mothereth  the  brook,  and  ivy  hath  climbed  it 
o'er  the  trunk  and  leafless  branch  o'  yonder 
birch,  till  she  doth  stand  bedecked  as  for  a 
folly  dance. 

Rat-a-tat !    Rat-a-tat ! 
Rat-a-tat!    Sh-h-h-h! 


144  PATIENCE  WORTH 

From  out  the  thick  where  hides  the  logged 
and  mud-smeared  shack. 

Rat-a-tat!    Rat-a-tat! 

Sh-h-h-h! 
And  hark  ye,  to  the  tanner's  song! 

Up,  up,  up !  and  down,  down,  down ! 
A  hammer  to  smite 

And  a  hand  to  pound ! 
A  maid  to  court, 

And  a  swain  to  woo, 
A  heiffer  felled 

And  I  build  a  shoe ! 
A  souse  anew  in  yonder  vat, 

And  I'll  buy  my  lady 
A  feathered  hat! 

The  play  then  begins  with  the  tanner  and 
his  apprentice,  and  the  action  soon  leads  to  the 
royal  castle,  where  the  exquisite  love  story  is 
developed,  without  a  love  scene.  There  is  no 
tragedy  in  the  story.  It  is  all  sentiment,  and 
humor.  And  it  is  filled  with  poetry.  Consider, 
for  example,  this  description  of  Easter  morn, 
from  the  prologue  to  the  sixth  act: 


THE  PROSE  145 

The  earth  did  wake  with  boughs  aburst.  A 
deadened  apple  twig  doth  blush  at  casting 
Winter's  furry  coat,  to  find  her  naked  blooms 
abath  in  sun.  The  feathered  hosts,  atuned,  do 
carol,  "  He  hath  risen!  "  E'en  the  crow  with 
envy  trieth  melody  and  soundeth  as  a  brass; 
and  listening,  loveth  much  his  song.  Young 
grasses  send  sweet-scented  damp  through  the 
hours  of  risen  day.  The  bell,  atoll,  doth  bid 
the  village  hence.  E'en  path  atraced  through 
velvet  fields  hath  flowered  with  fringing  bloom 
and  jeweled  drops,  atempting  tarriers.  The 
sweet  o'  sleep  doth  grace  each  venturing  face. 
The  kine  stand  knee  depth  within  the  silly- 
tittered  brook,  or  deep  in  bog  awallow.  Soft 
breath  ascent  and  lazy-eyed,  they  wait  them 
for  the  stripping-maid. 

The  play  is  permeated  with  rich  humor,  and 
to  illustrate  this  I  give  a  bit  of  the  dialogue 
between  Dougal,  the  page,  and  Anne,  the 
castle  cook.  To  appreciate  it  one  must  know 
a  little  of  the  story.  The  hand  of  the  Princess 
Ermaline  is  sought  by  Prince  Charlie,  a  dod- 


146  PATIENCE  WORTH 

dering  old  rake,  whom  she  detests,  but  whom 
for  reasons  of  state  she  may  be  compelled  to 
accept.  However,  she  vows  she  will  not  speak 
while  he  is  at  court,  nor  does  she  utter  a  word, 
in  the  play,  until  the  end  of  the  last  act.  She 
has  fallen  in  love  with  a  troubadour,  who  has 
come  from  no  one  knows  where,  but  who  by  his 
grace  and  his  wit  and  his  intelligence  has  made 
himself  a  favorite  with  all  the  castle  folk. 
Anne  has  a  roast  on  the  spit,  and  is  scouring  a 
pot  with  sand  and  rushes,  when  Dougal  enters 
the  kitchen. 

Dougal. — "  Anne,  goody  girl,  leave  me  but 
suck  a  bone.  My  sides  have  withered  and 
fallen  in,  in  truth." 

Anne. — "  Get  ye,  Dougal!  Thy  footprints 
do  show  them  in  grease  like  to  the  Queen's 
seal  upon  my  floor !  " 

Dougal. — '  The  princess  hath  bidden  me  to 
stay  within  her  call,  but  she  doth  drouse, 
adrunk  on  love-lilt  o'  the  troubadour,  and 
Prince  of  Fools  (Prince  Charlie)  hath  gone 
long  since  to  beauty  sleep.  He  tied  unto  his 
poster  a  posey  wreath,  and  brushed  in  scented 


THE  PROSE  147 

oils  his  beauteous  locks,  and  sung  a  lay  to 
Ermaline,  and  kissed  a  scullery  wench  afore 
he  slept." 

Anne. — "  The  dog!  I'd  love  a  punch  to 
shatter  him!  And  Ermaline  hath  vowed  to 
lock  her  lips  and  pass  as  mute  until  his  going." 

Dougal. — "  Yea,  but  eye  may  speak,  for  hers 
do  flash  like  lightning,  and  though  small,  her 
foot  doth  fall  most  weighty  to  command. 

"  Tester,  the  Prince  did  seek  her  in  the 
throne  room.  He'd  tied  his  kerchief  to  a  sack 
and  filled  it  full  o'  blue-bells,  and  minced  him 
'long  the  halls  astrewing  blossoms  and  singing 
like  to  a  frozen  pump. 

"  Within  the  chamber,  Ermaline  did  hide  her 
face  in  dreading  to  behold  him  come,  but  at  the 
door  he  spied  the  dear  and  bounded  like  a 
puppy  'cross  the  flags,  apelting  her  with  blooms 
and  sputtering  'mid  tee-hees.  She,  tho',  did 
spy  him  first,  and  measured  her  his  sight  and 
sudden  slipped  her  'neath  the  table  shroud. 
And  he,  Anne,  I  swear,  sprawled  him  in  his 
glee  and  rose  to  find  her  gone.  And  whacked 
my  shin,  the  ass,  acause  I  heaved  at  shoulders." 


148  PATIENCE  WORTH 

Anne. — "  Ah,  Dougal,  'tis  a  weary  time,  in 
truth.  Thee  hadst  best  to  put  it  back,  to  court 
thy  mistress'  whim.  Good  sleep,  ye!  And 
Dougal,  I  have  a  loving  for  the  troubadour. 
Whence  cometh  he? " 

Dougal. — "  Put  thy  heart  to  rest,  good 
Anne;  he's  but  a  piper  who  doth  knock  the 
taber's  end  and  coaxeth  trembling  strings  by 
which  to  sing.  He  came  him  out  o'  nothing, 
like  to  the  night  or  day.  We  waked  to  hear 
him  singing  'neath  the  wall." 

Anne. — "Aye,  but  I  do  wag!  For  surely 
thee  doth  see  how  Ermaline  doth  court  his 
song." 

Dougal. — "  Nay,  Anne,  'tis  but  to  fill  an 
empty  day." 


WHEN  Patience  had  finished  this  she  preened 
herself  a  little.  "  Did  I  not  then  spin  a  lengthy 
tale?"  she  asked.  But  immediately  she  be- 
gan work  upon  another,  a  story  of  such  length 
that  it  alone  will  make  a  book.  It  differs  in 
many  respects  from  her  other  works,  particu- 
larly in  the  language,  and  from  a  literary 
standpoint  is  altogether  the  most  amazing  of 
her  compositions.  This,  too,  is  dramatic  in 
form,  but  scene  often  merges  into  scene  with- 
out division,  and  it  has  more  of  the  character- 
istics of  the  modern  story.  It  is,  however, 
medieval,  but  it  is  a  tale  of  the  fields,  primarily, 
the  heroine,  Telka,  being  a  farm  lass,  and  the 
hero  a  field  hand.  Perhaps  this  is  why  the 
obscure  dialectal  forms  of  rural  England  of  a 
time  long  gone  by  are  woven  into  it.  In  this 
Patience  makes  an  astonishingly  free  use  of 
the  prefix  "  a,"  in  place  of  a  number  of  pre- 
fixes, such  as  "  be  "  and  "  with,"  now  com- 
monly used,  and  she  attaches  it  to  nouns  and 

149 


150  PATIENCE  WORTH 

•verbs  and  adjectives  with  such  frequency  as  to 
make  this  usage  a  prominent  feature  of  the 
diction.  Let  me  introduce  Telka  in  the  words 
of  Patience : 

% 
"  Dewdamp  soggeth  grasses  laid  low  aneath 

the  blade  at  yester's  harvest,  and  thistle-bloom 
weareth  at  its  crown  a  jewelled  spray. 

"  Brown  thrush,  nested  'neath  the  thick  o' 
yonder  shrub,  hath  preened  her  wings  full  long 
aneath  the  tender  warmth  o'  morning  sun. 

"  Afield  the  grasses  glint,  and  breeze  doth 
seeming  set  aflow  the  current  o'  a  green- waved 
stream. 

"Soft-footed  strideth  Telka,  bare  toes 
asink  in  soft  earth  and  bits  o'  green  acling, 
bedamped,  unto  her  snowy  limbs.  Smocked 
brown  and  aproned  blue,  she  seemeth  but  a 
bit  o'  earth  and  sky  alight  amid  the  field. 
Asplit  at  throat,  the  smock  doth  show  a  busom 
like  to  a  sheen  o'  fleecy  cloud  aveiling  o'er  the 
sun's  first  flush. 

"  Betanned  the  cheek,  and  tresses  bleached 
by  sun  at  every  twist  of  curl.  Strong  hands 


THE  PROSE  151 

do  clasp  a  branch  long  dead  and  dried,  at  end 
bepronged,  and  casteth  fresh-cut  blades  to 
heap." 

Such  is  Telka  in  appearance.  "  She  seemeth 
but  a  bit  o'  earth  and  sky  alight  amid  the  field." 
Seemeth,  yes,  but  there  is  none  of  the  sky  in 
Telka.  She  is  of  the  earth,  earthy,  an  intensely 
practical  young  woman,  industrious,  econom- 
ical, but  with  no  sense  of  beauty  whatever,  no 
imagination,  no  thought  above  the  level  of  the 
ground.  "  I  fashioned  jugs  o'  clay,"  her 
father  complained,  "  and  filled  with  bloom,  and 
she  becracked  their  necks  and  kept  the  swill 
therein."  Add  to  this  a  hot  temper  and  a  sharp 
tongue,  and  the  character  of  Telka  is  revealed. 
Franco,  the  lover,  on  the  other  hand,  is  an 
artist  and  poet,  although  a  field  worker.  He 
has  been  reared,  as  a  foundling,  by  the  friars 
in  the  neighboring  monastery,  and  they  have 
taught  him  something  of  the  arts  of  mosaics 
and  the  illumination  of  missals.  Between  these 
two  is  a  constant  conflict  of  the  material  and 
the  spiritual,  and  the  theme  of  the  story  is  the 


152  PATIENCE  WORTH 

spiritual    regeneration    or    development    of 
Telka. 


"  See,"  says  Franco,  "  Yonder  way-rose 
hath  a  bloom !  She  be  a  thrifty  wench  and  hath 
saved  it  from  the  spring." 

Telka.—"!  hate  the  thorned  thing.  Its 
barb  hath  pricked  my  flesh  and  full  many  a 
rent  doth  show  it  in  my  smock." 

Franco. — "  Ah,  Telka,  thine  eyes  do  look 
like  yonder  blue  and  shimmer  like  to  brook- 
let's breast." 

Telka. — "  The  brooklet  be  bestoned,  and 
muddied  by  the  swine.  Thy  tung  doth  trip 
o'er  pretty  words." 

Franco. — "  But  list,  Telka,  I  would  have 
thee  drink  from  out  my  cup !  " 

Telka. — "  Ah,  show  me  then  the  cup." 

And  Telka's  father,  a  wise  old  man,  cautions 
Franco : 

"  Thee  hadst  best  to  take  a  warning,  Franco. 
She  be  o'  the  field  and  rooted  there;  and  thee 
o'  the  field,  but  reaped,  and  bound  to  free  thee 


THE  PROSE  153 

of  the  chaff  by  flailing  of  the  world.  She  then 
would  be  to  thee  but  straw  and  waste  to  cast 
awhither." 

But  an  understanding  of  the  nature  of  this 
strange  tale  and  its  peculiar  dialect  requires 
a  longer  extract.  The  "  Story  of  the  Judge 
Bush  "  will  serve,  better  perhaps  than  anything 
else,  to  convey  an  idea  of  the  characters  of 
Telka  and  Franco,  as  well  as  to  illustrate  the 
language;  and  the  episode  is  interesting  in 
itself.  The  dialogue  opens  with  Telka,  Franco 
and  Marion  on  their  way  to  Telka's  hut. 
Marion  is  Telka's  dearest  friend,  although  one 
gets  a  contrary  impression  from  Telka's 
caustic  remarks  in  this  excerpt;  but  unlike 
Telka,  she  can  understand  and  appreciate  the 
poetic  temperament  of  Franco.  To  show  her 
contempt  for  Franco's  aspirations,  Telka  has 
taken  his  color  pots  and  buried  them  in  a 
dung-heap,  and  this  characteristic  act  is  the 
foundation  of  the  "  Story  of  the  Judge  Bush." 

(Franco)    "  Come,  we  do  put  us  to  a-dry. 
'Tis  sky  aweep,  and  'tis,  a  gray  day  from  now. 


154?  PATIENCE  WORTH 

I  tell  thee,  Telka,  we  then  put  us  to  hearth, 
and  spin  ye  shall.  And  thou,  Marion,  shalt 
bake  an  ash  loaf  and  put  o'  apples  for  to  burst 
afore  the  fire.  'Tis  chill,  the  whine-wind  o'  the 
storm.  We  then  shall  spin  a  tale  by  turn ;  and 
Telka,  lass,  I  plucked  a  sweet  bloom  for  thee 
to  wear.  Thine  eye  hath  softened,  eh,  my 
lass  ?  Here,  set  thy  nose  herein  and  thou  canst 
ne'er  to  think  a  tho't  besoured." 

(Telka)  "Ah,  'tis  a  wise  lad  I  wed,  who 
spendeth  o'  his  stacking  hours  to  pluck  weed, 
and  thee  wouldst  have  me  sniff  the  dung-dust 
from  their  leaf.  Do  cast  them  whither,  and 
'pon  thy  smock  do  wipe  thy  hand.  It  be  my 
fancy  for  to  waste  the  gray  hours  aside  the 
fire's  glow, — but,  Franco,  see  ye,  the  wee  pigs 
asqueal!  'Tis  nay  liking  the  wet.  Do  fetch 
them  hence.  Here,  Marion,  cast  my  cape 
about  thee,  since  thou  dost  wear  thy  pettiskirt 
and  Sabboth  smock.  Gad !  Blue  maketh  thee 
to  match  a  plucked  goose.  Thy  skin  already 
hath  seamed,  I  vow.  And,  Marion,  'tis  'deed  a 
flash  to  me  thy  tress  be  red!  Should  I  to  bear 
a  red  top  I'd  cast  it  whither." 


THE  PROSE  155 

(Franco)  "  Telka,  Telka,  drat  thy  barbed 
tung!  Cast  thou  the  bolt.  Gad!  What  a 
scent  o'  browning  joint!" 

(Telka)  "  Do  leave  me  for  to  turn  the  spit 
that  I  may  lick  the  finger-drip.  Thy  nose, 
Franco,  doth  trick  thee.  Thou  canst  sniff  o' 
dung-dust  and  scoff  at  drip.  Go,  roll  the 
apples  o'er  in  yonder  pile.  They  then  would 
suit  thee  well! " 

(Franco)  '  Telka,  I  bid  thee  to  wash  away 
such  tunging.  Here,  I  set  them  so.  Now  do 
I  to  fetch  thy  wheel.  Nay,  Marion,  do  cast 
thy  blush.  Tis  but  the  Telka  witch.  Do  thou 
to  start  thee  at  thy  tale  aspin." 

(Telka)  "Aye,  Marion,  thou  then,  since 
ne'er  truth  knoweth  thee,  thou  shouldst  ne'er 
to  lack  for  story.  Story  do  I  say?  Aye,  or 
lie,  'tis  brothers  they  be.  And,  Franco,  do  thou 
to  spin,  'twill  suit  thy  taste  to  feed  'pon  maid's 
fare.  I  be  the  spinner  o'  the  tale  afirst.  But, 
Franco,  I  fain  would  have  thee  fetch  a  pair  o' 
barkers.  Didst  deem  to  fret  me  that  thee 
dumped  the  twain  aneath  the  stack?  Go  thou 
and  fetch.  'Tis  well  that  thee  shouldst  bed 


156  PATIENCE  WORTH 

with    swine    lest    thee    be    preening    for    a 


swan." 


(Franco)  "  Ugh,  Telka!  Thou  art  like  to 
a  vat  o'  wine  awork.  Thou'lt  fetch  the  swine 
do  ye  seek  to  company  them." 

(Telka)  "  So  well,  Polly,  I  do  go,  for  'tis 
swine  o'  worth  amore  than  color  daub.  Set 
thee,  since  thou  be  wench." 

(Franco)  "  Look  ye,  Telka,  'tis  here  I  cast 
the  cloak  and  show  thee  metal  abared.  Thou 
hast  ridden  'pon  a  high  nag  for  days,  and  I 
do  kick  his  hock  and  set  him  at  a  limp.  Do 
thou  to  clip  thy  words  ashort  or  I  do  cast  a 
stone  athro'  thy  bubble." 

(Telka)  "Ah,  Franco,  'tis  nay  meaning! 
Put  here.  Do  spin  thy  tale,  but  do  ye  first  to 
leave  me  fetch  the  wee-squeals.  Then  I  do 
be  a  tamed  dove.  See  ye?  " 

(Franco)  "Away,  then,  and  fetch  thee 
back  ahurry."  (Exit  Telka.) 

(Franco)  "  Marion,  'tis  what  that  I  should 
put  as  path  to  tread?  She  be  awronged  but  do 
I  feed  the  fires,  or  put  a  stop  ?  " 

(Marion)    "  Franco,  'tis  a  pot  and  stew  she 


THE  PROSE  157 

loveth.  Think  ye  to  coax  thy  dream-forms 
from  out  the  pot?  Telka  arounded  and 
awrathed  be  like  unto  a  thunder-storm,  but 
Telka  less  the  wrath  and  round,  be  Winter's 
dreary." 

(Franco)  "  Not  so,  Marion,  I  shall  then 
call  forth  the  ghosts  o'  painted  pots  and  touch 
the  dreary  abloom.  Didst  thou  e'er  to  slit  thy 
eye  and  view  thro'  afar?  Dost  thou  then  be- 
hold the  motes?  So,  then,  shall  I  to  view  the 
Telka  maid.  Whist!  Here  she  be!  Aback, 
Telka?  Come,  I  itch  for  to  spin  a  tale.  Sit 
thee  here  and  dry  the  wet  sparkles  from  thy 
curls.  List,  do! 

'Twere  a  peddle-packer  who  did  stroll 
adown  the  blade-strewn  path  along  the  village 
edge,  abent.  And  brow-shagged  eye  did  hide 
a  twinkle-mirth  aneath " 

"E-e-ek!    E-e-e-k!" 

( Telka)  "  Look,  Franco,  see  they  *  e-e-e-k ' 
do  I  to  pull  their  tails  uncurl!  " 

(Franco)  "  Do  ye  then  wish  thee,  Telka, 
for  to  play  upon  their  one-string  lyre,  or  do  I 
put  ahead?" 


158  PATIENCE  WORTH 

"  Bestrung,  aborder  o'  the  road,  the  cots 
send  smoke- wreathes  up  to  join  the  cloud. 
'Twere  sup-hour,  and  drip  afrazzle  soundeth 
thro'  the  doors  beope,  like  to  a  water-cachit 
aslipping  thro'  dry  leaf  to  pool  aneath.  Do  I 
then  put  it  clear? " 

(Telka)  "Yea,  Franco,  what  hath  he  in 
his  pack?  I'd  put  a  gander  for  a  frock! " 

(Marion)  "  On,  Franco,  thy  tale  hath  a 
lilt." 

(Franco)  "  Awag-walk  he  weaveth  to  the 
door  afirst-hand.  The  wee  lads  and  lass  do 
cluster  'bout  the  door,  and  twist  atween  their 
finger  and  thumb  their  smock-hem,  or  chew 
thereon.  But  he  doth  seem  aloth  to  cast  of 
pack  or  ope,  and  standeth  at  apeer  to  murmur 
— then  to  cast." 

"E-e-e-k!    E-e-e-k!" 

(Telka)  "Nay,  Franco,  'twere  not  my 
doing,  I  swear.  'Twere  he  who  sat  upon  a  fire- 
spark.  Do  haste!  I  hot  for  sight  athin  the 
pack." 

(Franco)  "  What,  Telka,  thou  awag  and 
pig  asqueak,  and  me  the  tail!  Do  put  quiet! 


THE  PROSE  159 

"  The  dame  and  sire  do  step  them  out  from 
gray  innards  o'  the  hut,  and  pack-tipper  beg- 
geth  for  a  mug  o'  porridge,  and  showeth  o'  the 
strand-bound  pack.  Wee  lads  and  lass 
aquiver,  tip-topple  at  a  peep,  and  dame  doth 
fetch  the  brew,  but  shaketh  nay  at  offering  o' 
gift,  and  spake  it  so :  'A  porridge  pot  doth 
hold  a  mug,  and  one  amore  for  he  who  bideth 
'thout  a  brew.  Nay,  drink  ye,  and  thank  the 
morrow's  sun.  'Tis  stony  path  thee  trod,  and 
dust  choketh.  Do  rest,  and  bide  thee  at  our 
sill  till  weariness  awarn  away.' 

"  Think  ye,  Marion,  that  peddle-man  did 
leave  and  cast  not  pence?  What  think  ye, 
Telka?" 

( Telka)  "  I  did  hear  thee  tell  o'  his  fill,  but 
tell  thee  o'  fill  o'  pack." 

(Franco)  "A  time,  Telka.  Nay,  he  did 
drink  and  left  as  price  an  ancient  jug  o'  clay, 
and  thick  and  o'  a  weight,  to  thank  and  wag" 
weave  hence." 

(Telka)  "  Did  he  then  to  pack  anew  and 
off  'thout  a  peep?" 

(Franco)    "  Yea,  and  dark  did  yawn  and 


160  PATIENCE  WORTH 

swallow  him.  But  morrow  bringeth  tale  that 
peddle-packer  had  paid  to  each  o'  huts  a  beg, 
and  what  think  ye?  Left  a  jug  where'er  he 
supped! " 

(Telka)  "  'Twere  a  clayster,  and  the 
morrow  findeth  him  afollow  for  price, 
egh?" 

(Franco)  "  Nay,  Telka,  not  so.  And  jugs 
ashaken  soundeth  like  to  a  wine;  but  atip  did 
show  nay  drop.  Marion,  do  tweak  the  Telka — 
she  be  aslumber." 

(Marion)  "  Wake  thee,  Telka,  the  jugs  be 
now  to  crack." 

(Telka)  "Nay,  'tis  a  puddle  o'  a  tale— a 
packster  and  a  strand-bound  pack,  aweary." 

(Franco)  "  But  list  thee!  For  'twere  eve 
that  found  the  dames  awag.  For  tho'  they  set 
the  jugs  aright,  there  be  but  dust  where  they 
did  stand.  Yea,  all,  Telka  maid,  save  that  the 
peddle-man  did  give  to  dame  at  first  hand. 
The  gabble  put  it  so,  that  'twere  the  porridge 
begged  that  dames  did  fetch  but  for  a  hope  o' 
price,  where  jugs  ashrunk." 

(Telka)    "But    'twere    such    a    scurvey, 


THE  PROSE  161 

Franco!  I  wage  the  jug  aleft  doth  leak. 
What  think  ye  I  be  caring  'bout  jug  or  peddle- 
packer? " 

(Marion)  "  Snip  short  thy  word,  Telka. 
Leave  Franco  for  to  tell.  I  be  aprick  for 
scratch  to  ease  the  itch  o'  wonder.  On,  lad, 
and  tie  the  ends  o'  weave-strand." 

(Franco)  'Tis  told  the  dame  did  treasure 
o'  the  jug,  and  sire  did  shew  abroad  the  won- 
der, and  all  did  list  unto  the  swish  o'  '  nothing 
wine/  and  thirsted  for  asup,  and  each  did 
tip  its  crook'd  neck  and  shake,  but  ne'er  a  drop 
did  slip  it  through.  And  wonder,  Marion,  the 
sides  did  sweat  like  to  a  damp  within!  So 
'twere.  The  townsmen  shook  awag  their  heads 
and  feared  the  witch- work  or  the  wise  man's 
cunger,  and  they  did  bid  the  sire  to  dig  a  pit 
and  put  therein  the  jug." 

(Telka)  "  'Twere  waste  they  wrought,  I 
vow,  for  should  ye  crack  away  its  neck  'twould 
then  be  fit  for  holding  o'  the  swill.  There  be 
a  pair  ahind  the  stack." 

(Franco)  "Nay,  Telka,  not  as  this,  for 
they  did  dig  a  pit  and  plant  jug  therein,  and 


PATIENCE  WORTH 

morrow  showed  from  out  the  fresh-turned 
earth  a  bush  had  sprung,  and  on  its  every 
branch  a  bud  o'  many  colored  hue  alike  to 
rainbow's  robe.  And  lo,  the  dames  and  sires 
did  cluster  'bout,  and  each  did  pluck  a  twig 
aladen  with  the  bud,  but  as  'twere  snapped, 
what  think  ye?  There  be  in  the  hand  a  naught 
— save  when  the  dame  who  asked  not  price  did 
pluck.  And  'tis  told  that  to  this  day  the  towns- 
men fetch  unto  the  bush  and  force  apluck  do 
they  make  question  o'  their  brotherman.  And 
so  'tis  with  he  who  fashions  o'  the  rainbow's 
robe  a  world  to  call  his  own,  and  fetcheth  to 
the  grown  bush  his  brother  for  to  shew,  and 
he  seeth  not,  'tis  so  he  judge." 

(Telka)  "  O,  thou  art  a  story-spinner  o'  a 
truth,  and  peddle-packer  too,  egh?  And  thou 
dost  deem  that  thou  hast  planted  o'  thy  pot  to 
force  thy  bush  by  which  ye  judge.  Paugh! 
Thou  art  a  fool,  Franco,  and  thy  pots  o'  color 
be  not  aworth  thy  pains.  So  thou  dost  think 
then  I  be  plucking  o'  naught  aside  thy  bush. 
Well,  I  do  tell  thee  this.  Thy  pots  ne'er  as 
the  jug  shall  spring.  Nay,  for  morn  found  me 


THE  PROSE  163 

adig,  and  I  did  cast  them  here  to  the  fire,  af  ear- 
ing they  should  haunt." 

(Franco)  "  'Tis  miff,  Telka,  I  leave  them 
to  the  flame.  But  thou  shouldst  know  the  bush 
abud  doth  show  in  every  smouldering  blaze." 

(Telka)  "See,  Franco,  I  be  yet  neck 
ahead,  for  I  do  spat  upon  the  flame  and  lo, 
thy  bush  be  naught!  " 

(Franco)  "  Aye,  'tis  so,  but  there  be  ahid 
a  place  thou  ne'er  hast  seen.  Therein  I  put 
what  be  mine  own — the  love  for  them.  Thou 
art  a  butterfly,  Telka,  abeating  o'  thy  wing 
upon  a  thistle-leaf.  Do  hover  'bout  the 
blooms  thou  knowest  best  and  leave  dream- 
bush  and  thistle-leaf." 

It  is  a  remarkable  story.  Many  lines  are 
gems  of  wit  or  wisdom  or  beauty,  and  it  con- 
tains some  exquisite  poetry.  There  are  many 
characters  in  it,  all  of  them  lovable  but  Telka, 
and  she  becomes  so  ere  the  end. 

A  curious  and  interesting  fact  in  this  con- 
nection is  that  after  beginning  this  story  Pa- 
tience used  its  peculiar  form  of  speech  in  her 


164  PATIENCE  WORTH 

conversation  and  in  her  poems.  Previously,  as 
I  have  pointed  out,  there  was  a  natural  and 
consistent  difference  between  her  speech  and 
her  writings,  and  it  would  seem  that  in  this 
change  she  would  show  that  she  is  not  subject 
to  any  rules,  nor  limited  to  the  dialect  of  any 
period  or  any  locality.  Scattered  through  this 
present  volume  are  poems,  prose  pieces  and 
bits  of  her  conversation,  in  which  the  curious 
and  frequent  use  of  the  prefix  a-,  the  abbrevia- 
tion of  the  word  "  of  "  and  the  strange  twists 
of  phrase  of  the  Telka  story  are  noticeable. 
All  of  these  were  received  after  this  story  was 
begun. 

But  there  is  another  form  of  prose  composi- 
tion that  Patience  has  given  to  us.  While  she 
is  writing  a  story  she  does  not  confine  herself 
to  that  work,  but  precedes  or  follows  it  with  a 
bit  of  gossip,  a  personal  message,  a  poem  or 
something  else.  Sometimes  she  stops  in  the 
midst  of  her  story  to  deliver  something  entirely 
foreign  to  it  that  comes  into  her  mind.  Dur- 
ing one  week,  while  "  Telka  "  was  being  re- 


THE  PROSE  165 

ceived,  she  presented  three  parables,  all  in  the 
peculiar  language  of  that  story.  I  reproduce 
them  here  and  leave  it  to  the  reader  to  ponder 
o'er  their  meaning. 

"  Long,  yea,  long  agone,  aside  a  wall  atilt 
who  joined  unto  a  brother- wall  and  made 
atween  a  gap  apoint  abacked,  there  did  upon 
the  every  day,  across-leged,  sit  a  bartmaker, 
amid  his  sacks  aheaped.  And  ne'er  a  buy  did 
tribesmen  make.  Nay,  but  'twere  the  babes 
who  sought  the  bartman,  and  lo,  he  shutteth 
both  his  eyes  and  babes  do  pilfer  from  the 
sacks  and  feed  thereon,  till  sacks  asink.  And 
still  at  crosslegs  doth  he  sit. 

"  Yea,  and  days  do  follow  days  till  Winter 
setteleth  'pon  his  locks  its  snow.  Aye,  and  lo, 
at  rise  o'  sun  'pon  such  an  day  as  had  followed 
day  since  first  he  sat,  they  did  see  that  he  had 
ashrunked  and  they  did  wag  that  'twere 
the  wasting  o'  his  days  at  sitting  at  cross- 
leg. 

"  And  yet  the  babes  did  fetch  for  feast  and 
wert  fed.  Till  last  a  day  did  dawn  and  gap 


166  PATIENCE  WORTH 

ashowed  it  empty  and  no  man  woed ;  but  babes 
did  sorry  'bout  the  spot  'till  tribesmen  mar- 
veled and  fetched  alongside  and  coaxed  with 
sweets  their  word.  But  no  man  found  answer 
in  their  prate.  And  they  did  ope  remaining 
sacks  and  lo,  there  be  anaught  save  dry  fruit, 
and  babes  did  reach  forth  for  it  and  wert  fed, 
and  more,  it  did  nurture  them,  and  they  went 
forth  alater  to  the  fields  o'  earth  astrengthened 
and  fed  'pon — what,  Brother?  List  ye.  Ton 
truth." 

"  There  be  aside  the  market's  place  a  mer- 
chant and  a  brother  merchant.  Aye,  and  one 
did  put  price  ahigh,  and  gold  aclinketh  and 
copper  groweth  mold  atween  where  he  did 
store.  And  his  brother  giveth  measure  full  and 
more,  for  the  pence  o'  him  who  offereth  but 
pence,  at  measure  that  runneth  o'er  to  full  o' 
gold's  price. 

"  And  lo,  they  do  each  to  buy  o'  herds,  and  he 
who  hath  full  price  buyeth  but  the  shrunk  o' 
herd,  and  he  who  hath  little,  buyeth  the  full  o' 
herd.  And  time  maketh  full  the  sacks  o'  him 


THE  PROSE  167 

who  hoardeth  gold,  and  layeth  at  aflat  the  sacks 
o'  him  who  maketh  poor  price.  And  lo,  he  who 
hath  plenty  hoardeth  more,  and  he  who  had 
little  buyed  o'  seed  and  sowed  and  reaped 
therefrom.  And  famine  crept  it  nearer  and 
fringed  'pon  the  land  and  smote  the  land  o' 
him  who  asacketh  o'  gold  and  crept  .it  'pon  the 
land  o'  him  o'  pence. 

"  And  herds  did  low  o'  hunger  and  he  who 
hath  but  gold  hath  naught  to  feed  thereon. 
For  sacks  achoked  'pon  gold.  And  he  who  had 
but  pence  did  sack  but  grain  and  grass  and  fed 
the  herd.  And  lo,  they  fattened  and  did  fill 
the  emptied  sacks  with  gold,  while  he  who  hath 
naught  but  gold  did  sick,  and  famine  wasted  o' 
his  herd  and  famine's  sun  did  rise  to  shine  'pon 
him  astricken  'pon  gold  asacked." 

"  There  wert  a  man  and  his  brother  and  they 
wrought  them  unalike.  Yea,  and  one  did 
fashion  from  wood,  and  ply  till  wonderwork 
astood,  a  temple  o'  wood.  And  his  brother 
fashioneth  o'  reeds  and  worketh  wonder  bas- 
kets. And  he  who  wrought  o'  wood  scoffeth. 


168  PATIENCE  WORTH 

And  the  tribesmen  make  buy  o'  baskets  and 
wag  that  'tis  a- sorry  wrought  the  temple,  and 
spake  them  that  the  Lord  would  smite,  and  lay 
it  low.  For  he  who  wrought  did  think  him  o' 
naught  save  the  high  and  wide  o'  it,  and  looked 
not  at  its  strength  or  yet  its  stand  'pon  earth. 
And  they  did  turn  the  baskets  'bout  and  put 
to  strain,  and  lo,  they  did  hold.  And  it  were 
the  tribesmen,  who  shook  their  heads  and  mur- 
mured, '  Yea,  yea,  they  be  a  goodly.' 

"  So  'tis;  he  who  doth  fashion  from  wood  o' 
size  doth  prosper  not,  and  he  who  doth  fashion 
o'  reed  and  small,  doth  thrive  verily." 

These  are  all  somewhat  cryptic,  although 
their  interpretation  is  not  difficult,  but  that 
which  follows  on  the  magic  of  a  laugh  needs  no 
explanation.  "  I  do  fashion  out  a  tale  for 
babes,"  said  Patience,  when  she  presented  this 
parable  of  the  fairy's  wand,  and,  in  it  she  gives 
expression  to  another  one  of  her  characteristics, 
one  that  is  intensely  human,  the  love  of  laugh- 
ter, which  she  seems  to  like  to  hear  and  often 
to  provoke. 


THE  PROSE  169 

"  Lo,  at  a  time  thou  knowest  not,  aye,  I,  thy 
handmaid,  knowest  not,  there  wert  born  unto 
the  earth  a  babe.  And  lo,  the  dame  o'  this 
babe  wert  but  a  field's  woman.  And  lo,  days 
and  days  did  pass  until  the  fullness  of  the 
babe's  days,  and  it  stood  in  beauty  past  word 
o'me. 

"  Yea,  and  there  wert  a  noble,  and  he  did 
pass,  and  lo,  his  brow  was  darked,  and  smile 
had  forsook  his  lips.  And  he  came  unto  the 
cot  and  there  stood  the  babe,  who  wert  now  a 
maid  o'  lovely.  And  he  spaked  unto  her  and 
said: 

*  Come  thou,  and  unto  the  lands  of  me 
shall  we  make  way.  Thou  art  not  o'  the  fields, 
but  for  the  nobles.' 

"  And  she  spake  not  unto  his  word.  And  lo, 
the  mother  of  the  babe  came  forth  and  this 
man  told  unto  her  of  this  thing,  that  her  babe 
wert  not  of  the  field  but  for  the  nobled.  And, 
at  the  bidding  of  the  noble,  she  spake,  yea,  the 
maid  should  go  unto  his  lands. 

"  And  time  and  time  after  the  going,  lo,  no 


170  PATIENCE  WORTH 

word  came  unto  the  mother.  And  within  the 
lands  of  the  noble  the  maid  lived,  and  lo,  the 
days  wert  sorry,  and  the  paths  held  but 
shadows,  and  nay  smiles  shed  gold  unto  the 
hours.  And  she  smiled  that  this  noble  did 
offer  unto  her  much  of  royal  stores.  Yea, 
gems,  and  gold,  and  all  a  maid  might  wish, 
and  she  looked  in  pity  unto  the  noble  and 
spake: 

"  '  What  hast  thou?  Lo,  thou  hast  brought 
forth  of  thy  store  and  given  unto  me,  and 
what  doth  it  buy?  Thy  lips  are  ever  sorry  and 
thy  hours  dark.  Then  take  thou  these  gifts 
and  keep  within  such  an  day  as  thine,  for,  hark 
ye,  my  dame,  the  field's  woman,  hath  given 
unto  me  that  which  setteth  at  a  naught  thy 
gifts ;  for  hark  ye :  mid  thy  dark  o'  sorry  I  shall 
spill  a  laugh,  and  it  be  a  fairies'  wand,  and 
turneth  dust  to  gold.' 

"  And  she  fled  unto  the  sun's  paths  of  the 
fields. 

"  Verily  do  I  to  say  unto  thee,  this,  the 
power  of  the  fairies'  wand,  is  thine,  thy  gift  of 
thy  field-mother,  Earth.  Then  cast  out  that 


THE  PROSE  171 

which  earth-lands  do  offer  unto  thee  and  flee 
with  thy  gift." 

It  is  somewhat  difficult  to  select  an  ending 
for  this  chapter  on  the  prose  of  Patience:  the 
material  for  it  is  so  abundant  and  so  varied, 
but  this  "  Parable  of  the  Cloak  "  may  perhaps 
form  a  fitting  finish: 

'  There  wert  a  man,  and  lo,  he  did  to  seek 
and  quest  o'  sage,  that  which  he  did  mouth 
o'ermuch.  And  lo,  he  did  to  weave  o'  such  an 
robe,  and  did  to  clothe  himself  therein.  And 
lo,  'twer  sun  ashut  away,  and  cool  and  heat  and 
bright  and  shade. 

"  And  lo,  still  did  he  to  draw  'bout  him  the 
cloak,  and  'twer  o'  the  mouthings  o'  the  sage. 
And  lo,  at  a  day  'twer  sent  abroad  that  Truth 
should  stalk  'pon  Earth,  and  man,  were  he  to 
look  him  close,  shouldst  see. 

"  And  lo,  the  man  did  draw  'bout  him  the 
cloak,  and  did  to  wag  him  '  Nay '  and  '  Nay, 
'twer  truth  the  sages  did  to  mouth  and  I  did 
weave  athin  the  cloak  o'  me.' 


PATIENCE  WORTH 

"And  then  'twer  that  Truth  did  seek  o' 
Earth,  and  she  wert  clad  o'  naught,  and  seeked 
the  man,  and  begged  that  he  would  cast  the 
cloak  and  clothe  o'  her  therein.  And  lo,  he 
did  to  draw  him  close  the  cloak,  and  hid  his 
face  therein,  and  wag  him  '  Nay,'  he  did  to 
know  her  not. 

"  And  lo,  she  did  to  fetch  her  unto  him 
athrice,  and  then  did  he  to  wag  him  still  a 
'Nay!  Nay!  Nay!'  And  lo,  she  toucheth  o' 
the  cloth  o'  sage's  mouths  and  it  doth  fall 
atattered  and  leave  him  clothed  o'  naught,  and 
at  a  wishing.  And  he  did  seek  o'  Truth,  aye, 
ever,  and  when  he  did  to  find,  lo,  she  wagged 
him  nay,  and  nay,  and  nay." 


CONVERSATIONS 

"This  be  bread.  If  man  knoweth  not  the  grain 
from  which  'twer  fashioned,  what  then?  'Tis  bread. 
Let  man  deny  me  this." — PATIENCE  WORTH. 

BUT  after  all,  perhaps  the  truest  conception 
of  the  character  and  versatility  of  Patience  can 
be  acquired  from  her  "  conversations."  The 
word  "conversation"  I  here  loosely  apply  to  all 
that  comes  from  her  in  the  course  of  an  even- 
ing, excepting  the  work  on  her  stories.  The 
poems  and  parables  are  usually  woven  into  her 
remarks  with  a  sequence  that  suggests  ex- 
temporaneous production  for  the  particular 
occasion,  although  as  a  rule  they  are  of  general 
application.  Almost  invariably  they  are 
brought  out  by  something  she  or  someone 
else  has  said,  or  as  a  tribute,  a  lesson  or  a  com- 
fort to  some  person  who  is  present.  Her 
songs,  as  she  calls  her  poems,  are  freely  given, 

173 


174.  PATIENCE  WORTH 

apparently  without  a  thought  or  a  care  as  to 
what  may  become  of  them.  They  seem  to  come 
spontaneously,  without  effort,  with  no  pause 
for  thought,  no  groping  for  the  right  word,  and 
to  fall  into  their  places  as  part  of  the  spoken 
rather  than  the  written  speech.  So  it  is  that 
the  term  "  conversation  "  in  this  connection  is 
made  to  include  much  that  ordinarily  would 
not  fall  within  that  designation. 

One  of  the  pleasures  of  an  evening  with  Pa- 
tience is  the  uncertainty  of  the  form  of  the 
entertainment.  Never  are  two  evenings  alike 
in  the  general  nature  of  the  communications. 
She  adapts  herself  to  circumstances  and  to  the 
company  present,  serious  if  they  are  bent  on 
serious  subjects,  merry  if  they  are  so;  but  sel- 
dom will  the  serious  escape  without  a  little  of 
the  merry,  or  the  merry  without  a  little  of  the 
serious.  Sometimes  her  own  feelings  seem  to 
have  an  influence.  Always,  however,  she  is 
permitted  to  take  her  own  course,  except  in 
the  case  of  a  formal  examination,  to  which  she 
readily  responds  if  conducted  with  respect. 
She  may  devote  the  evening  largely  to  poetry, 


CONVERSATIONS  175 

possibly  varying  the  themes,  as  on  one  evening 
when  she  gave  a  nature  poem,  one  of  a  religious 
character,  a  lullaby,  a  humorous  verse  and  a 
prayer,  interspersed  with  discussion.  She  may 
talk  didactically  with  little  or  no  interruption. 
She  may  submit  to  a  catechism  upon  religion, 
philosophy,  philology,  or  any  subject  that  may 
arise.  She  may  devote  an  evening  to  a  series  of 
little  personal  talks  to  a  succession  of  sitters,  or 
she  may  elect  just  to  gossip.  "  I  be  dame,"  she 
says,  and  therefore  not  averse  to  gossip.  But 
rarely  will  she  neglect  to  write  something  on 
whatever  story  she  may  have  in  hand.  She 
speaks  of  such  writing  as  "  weaving."  "  Put 
ye  to  weave,"  she  will  say,  and  that  means  that 
conversation  is  to  stop  for  a  time  until  a  little 
real  work  is  accomplished. 

The  conversations  which  follow  are  selected 
to  illustrate  the  variety  of  form  referred  to,  as 
well  as  to  introduce  a  number  of  interesting 
statements  that  throw  light  on  the  character  of 
the  phenomena. 

Upon  a  certain  evening  the  Currans  had  two 
visitors,  Dr.  and  Mrs.  W.  With  Dr.  W.  and 


176  PATIENCE  WORTH 

Mrs.  C.  at  the  board  and  Mrs.  W.  leaning  over 
it,  Patience  began: 

"Ah,  hark!  Here  abe  athree;  yea,  love, 
faith  and  more  o'  love!  Thee  hast  for  to  hark 
unto  word  I  do  put  o'  them,  not  ye." 

And  then  she  told  this  tale  of  the  Mite  and 
the  Seeds: 

"  Hark!  Aneath  the  earth  fell  a  seed,  and 
lay  aside  a  Mite,  a  winged  mite,  who  hid  from 
cold.  Yea,  and  the  Mite  knew  o'  the  day  o'er 
the  Earth's  crust,  and  spake  unto  the  Seed,  and 
said: 

"  '  The  hours  o'  day  show  sun  and  cloud, 
aye,  and  the  Earth's  crust  holdeth  grass 
and  tree.  Aye,  and  men  walk  'pon  the 
Earth.' 

"  Aye,  and  the  Seed  did  say  unto  the  Mite: 

"  *  Nay,  there  be  a  naught  save  Earth  and 
dark,  for  mine  eye  hath  not  beheld  what  thou 
tellest  of.' 

"  Yea,  and  the  Mite  spake  it  so: 

" '  'Tis  dark  and  cold  o'er  the  crust 
o'  Earth,  and  thou  and  me  awarm  and 
close  ahere.' 


CONVERSATIONS  177 

"  But  the  Seed  spake  out : '  Nay,  this  be  the 
time  I  seek  me  o'er  the  Earth's  crust  and  see 
the  Day  thou  tellest  of.' 

"  And  lo,  he  sent  out  leaf,  and  reached  high. 
And  lo,  when  the  leaf  had  pushed  up  from 
'neath  the  crust,  there  were  snow's  cut  and  cold, 
and  it  died,  and  knew  not  the  Day  o'  the  Mite: 
for  the  time  was  not  riped  that  he  should  seek 
unto  new  days. 

"  And  lo,  the  Stalk  that  had  sent  forth  the 
Seed,  sent  forth  amore,  and  lo,  again  a  one  did 
sink  aside  the  Mite.  And  he  spake  to  it  of  the 
Day  o'  Earth  and  said :  '  Thy  brother  sought 
the  Day,  and  it  wert  not  time,  and  lo,  he  is  no 
more.' 

"  And  he  told  of  the  days  of  Earth  unto  the 
seed,  and  it  spaked  unto  him  and  said :  *  This 
day  o'  thee  meaneth  naught  to  me.  Lo,  I  shall 
spring  not  a  root,  nor  shall  I  to  seek  me  the 
days  o'  Earth.  Nay,  I  shall  lay  me  close  and 
warm.' 

"  And  e'en  though  the  Mite  spake  unto  the 
Seed  at  the  time  when  it  wert  ripe  that  it  should 
seek,  lo,  it  lay,  and  Summer's  tide  found  it  a 


178  PATIENCE  WORTH 

naught,  for  it  feeded  'pon  itself,  and  lo,  wert 
not. 

"  And  at  a  later  tide  did  a  seed  to  fall,  and  it 
harked  unto  the  Mite  and  waited  the  time,  and 
when  it  wert  riped,  lo,  it  upped  and  sought  the 
day.  And  it  wert  so  as  the  Mite  had  spaked. 
And  the  Seed  grew  into  a  bush. 

"And  lo,  the  winged  Mite  flew  out:  for  it 
had  brought  a  brother  out  o'  the  dark  and  unto 
the  Day,  and  the  task  wert  o'er. 

"  These  abe  like  unto  them  who  seek  o'  the 
words  o'  me. 

"  Now  aweave  thou." 

Patience  then  wrote  about  two  hundred 
words  of  a  story,  after  which  Mrs.  W.  inquired 
of  Mr.  C.: 

"  Don't  you  ever  try  to  write  on  the  board? " 
To  which  he  replied  facetiously,  "  No,  I'm  too 
dignified." 

Patience. — "  Yea,  he  smirketh  unto  swine 
and  kicketh  the  nobles." 

Then  seeming  to  feel  that  the  visitors  were 


CONVERSATIONS  179 

wanting  something  more  personal  than  the 
"Tale"  she  said: 

"  Alawk,  they  be  ahungered,  and  did  weave 
a  hit.  Then  hark.  Here  he. 

"What  think  ye,  man?  They  do  pucker 
much  o'er  the  word  o'  me,  and  spat  forth  that 
thou  dost  eat  and  smack  o'  liking.  Yea,  but 
hark!  Who  shed  drop  for  Him  but  one  o'  His, 
yea,  the  Son  o'  Him?  Think  ye  this  abe  the 
pack  o'  me?  Nay,  and  thou  and  thou  and  thou 
shalt  shed  drops  in  loving  for  the  pack,  for  it 
be  o'  Him.  Now  shall  I  to  sing: 

How  doth  the  Mise-man  greed, 
And  lay  unto  his  store, 
And  seek  him  out  the  pence  of  Earth, 
Wherein  the  hearts  do  rust? 

How  doth  the  Muse-man  greed, 
And  seek  him  o'  the  Day, 
And  word  that  setteth  up  a  wag — 
While  hearts  o5  Earth  are  filthed? 

How  doth  the  See-man  greed? 
Yea,  and  how  he  opeth  up  his  eye, 
And  seeth  naught  and  telleth  much — 
While  hearts  of  earth  are  hurt. 


180  PATIENCE  WORTH 

How  doth  the  Good-man  greed, 

Who  dealeth  o'  the  Word? 

He  eateth  o'  its  flesh  and  casts  but  bone, 

While  hearts  o'  Earth  are  woed. 

How  doth  the  Man-man  greed? 

He  eateth  o'  the  store,  yet  holdeth  ope 

His  hands  and  scattereth  o'  bread 


This  then  abe,  and  yet  will  be 

Since  time  and  time,  and  beeth  ever." 

As  soon  as  this  was  read,  she  followed  with 
another  song: 

Drink  ye  unto  me. 

Drink  ye  deep,  to  me. 

Yea,  and  seek  ye  o'  the  Brew  ye  quaff, 

For  this  do  I  to  beg. 

Seek  not  the  wine  o'  Summer's  sun, 

That  hid  'mid  purpled  vine, 

And  showeth  there  amid  the  Brew 

Thou  suppest  as  the  Wine. 

Seek  not  the  drops  o'  pool, 

Awarmed  aneath  the  sun, 

And  idly  lapping  at  the  brink 

Of  mosses'  lips,  to  sup. 


CONVERSATIONS  181 

Seek  not  o'  vintage  Earth  doth  hold. 
Nay,  unto  thee  this  plea  shall  wake 
The  Wine  that  thou  shouldst  quaff. 
For  at  the  loving  o'  this  heart 
The  Wine  o'  Love  shall  flow. 
Then  drink  ye  deep,  ah,  drink  ye  deep, 
And  drink  ye  deep  o'  Love. 

"  Yea,  thine  unto  me,  and  mine  to  thee." 

After  which  she  explained: 

"  I  did  to  fashion  out  a  brew  for  her  ayonder 
and  him  ahere.  And  they  did  eat  o'  it.  Yea, 
for  they  know  o'  Him  and  know  o'  the  work- 
ings o'  Him  and  drinked  o'  the  love  o'  me  as 
the  love  o'  Him.  Yea,  and  hark,  there  abe 
much  athin  this  pack  for  thee." 

This,  it  will  be  observed,  is  rather  a  discourse 
than  a  conversation,  and  it  is  often  so,  Patience 
filling  the  evening  with  her  own  words ;  not  as 
exclusively  so,  however,  as  this  would  indicate: 
for  there  is  always  more  or  less  conversation 
among  the  party,  which  it  would  profit  nothing 
to  reproduce. 


183  PATIENCE  WORTH 

The  next  sitting  is  somewhat  more  varied. 
There  were  present  Dr.  X.,  a  teacher  of  anat- 
omy, Mrs.  X.,  Mrs.  W.  and  Miss  B.  Dr.  X. 
sat  at  the  board  with  Mrs.  Curran: 

Patience. — "  Eh,  gad!  Here  be  a  one  who 
taketh  Truth  unto  him  and  setteth  the  good 
dame  apace  that  she  knoweth  not  the  name  o' 
her.  I  tell  thee  'tis  he  who  knoweth  her  as  a 
sister,  and  telleth  much  o'  her,  and  naught  he 
speaketh  oft  holdeth  her,  and  much  he  speak- 
eth  holdeth  little  o'  her,  and  yet  ever  he  holdeth 
her  unto  him.  He  taketh  me  as  truth,  yea,  he 
knoweth  he  taketh  naught  and  buildeth  much, 
and  much  and  buildeth  little  o'  it.  I  track  me 
unto  the  door  o'  him  and  knock  and  he  heareth 


me." 


This,  of  course,  referred  to  Dr.  X.  and  his 
work,  and  it  aroused  some  discussion,  after 
which  Patience  asked,  "  Would  ye  I  sing? " 
The  answer  being  in  the  affirmative,  she  gave 
this  little  verse,  also  directed  to  Dr.  X. : 

Out  'pon  the  sea  o'  learning, 
Floateth  the  barque  o'  one  aseek. 


CONVERSATIONS  183 

Out  'pon  troubled  waters  floateth  the  craft, 
Abuilded  staunch  o'  beams  o'  truth. 
And  though  the  waves  do  beat  them  high 
And  wash  o'er  and  o'er  the  prow, 
Fear  thee  not,  for  Truth  saileth  on. 
Set  thy  beacon,  then,  to  crafts  not  thine, 
For  thou  hast  a  light  for  man. 

"  There,  thou  knowest  me.  I  tell  thee  I 
speak  unto  him  who  hath  truth  for  his  very 
own.  Set  thee  aweave." 

The  sitters  complied  and  received  about  six 
hundred  words  of  the  story,  after  which  Mrs. 
X.  took  the  board,  remarking  as  she  did  so  that 
she  was  afraid,  which  elicited  this  observation 
from  Patience: 

"  She  setteth  aside  the  stream  and  seeth  the 
craft  afloat  and  be  at  wishing  for  to  sail,  and 
•yet  she  would  to  see  her  who  steereth." 

Mrs.  X.  gave  up  her  place  to  Miss  B.,  a 
teacher  of  botany,  to  whom  Patience  presented 
this  tribute: 

:<  The  eye  o'  her  seeth  but  beauties  and  shut- 
teth  up  that  which  showeth  darked,  that  that 


184*  PATIENCE  WORTH 

not  o'  beautie  setteth  not  within  the  see  o'  her. 
Yea,  more ;  she  knoweth  how  'tis  the  dark  and 
what  showeth  not  o'  beauty,  at  His  touching 
showeth  lovely  for  the  see  o'  her. 

"  Such  an  heart!  Ah,  thou  shouldst  feast 
hereon.  I  tell  thee  she  giveth  unto  multitudes 
the  heart  o'  her;  and  such  as  she  dealeth  unto 
earth,  earth  has  need  for  much.  She  feasteth 
her  'pon  dusts  and  knoweth  dust  shall  spring 
forth  bloom.  Hurt  hath  set  the  heart  o'  her, 
and  she  hath  packed  up  the  hurt  with  petals." 

Patience  then  turned  her  attentions  again  to 
Dr.  X.  "  He  yonder,"  she  said,  "  hath  much 
aneath  his  skull's-cap  that  he  wordeth  not." 

Thus  urged,  Dr.  X.  inquired : 

"  Does  Patience  prepare  the  manuscript  she 
gives  in  advance?  It  rather  seems  that  she 
reads  the  material  to  Mrs.  Curran." 

"  See  ye,"  cried  Patience,  "  he  hath  spoke 
a  thing  that  set  aneath  his  skull's-cap !  "  And 
then,  in  answer  to  his  question: 

"  She  who  afashioneth  loaf  doth  shake  well 
the  grain-dust  that  husks  show  not.  Then  doth 


CONVERSATIONS  185 

she  for  to  brew  and  stir  and  mix,  else  the  loaf 
be  not  afit  for  eat." 

By  grain-dust  she  means  flour  or  meal,  and 
she  uses  the  word  brew  in  its  obsolete  sense  of 
preparation  for  cooking.  The  answer  may  be 
interpreted  that  she  arranges  the  story  in  her 
mind  before  its  dictation,  and  as  to  her  formal 
work  she  has  said  many  things  to  indicate  that 
such  is  her  method.  Dr.  X.  then  asked: 

"  Are  these  stories  real  happenings?  " 

To  which  Patience  replied: 

"Within  the  land  o'  here  [her  land]  be 
packed  the  days  o'  Earth,  and  thy  day  hath 
its  sister  day  ahere,  and  thy  neighbor's  day  and 
thy  neighbor's  neighbor's  day.  And  I  tell  thee, 
didst  thou  afashion  tale  thou  couldst  ne'er 
afashion  lie,  for  all  thou  hast  athin  thy  day 
that  thy  put  might  show  from  the  see  o'  thee 
hath  been;  at  not  thy  time,  yea,  but  it  hath 
been." 

"  Then,"  asked  Dr.  X.,  "  should  you  have 
transmitted  through  one  who  spoke  another 
language  you  would  have  used  their  tongue? " 

Patience  answered : 


186  PATIENCE  WORTH 

"  I  pettiskirt  me  so  that  ye  know  the  me  of 
me.  Yea,  and  I  do  to  take  me  o'  the  store  o' 
her  that  I  make  me  word  for  thee." 

"  Pettiskirt "  is  a  common  expression  of 
hers  to  mean  dress,  in  either  a  literal  or  a  fig- 
urative sense.  The  answer  does  not  mean  that 
she  is  limited  by  Mrs.  Curran's  vocabulary,  but 
is  an  affirmative  response  to  the  question. 

The  word  "  put "  in  the  preceding  answer 
is  one  that  requires  some  explanation,  for  it  is 
frequently  used  by  her,  and  makes  some  of  her 
sayings  difficult  to  understand.  She  makes  it 
convey  a  number  of  meanings  now  obsolete, 
but  it  usually  refers  to  her  writings,  her  words, 
her  sayings.  She  makes  a  noun  of  it,  it  will  be 
noticed,  as  well  as  a  verb.  In  the  foregoing 
instance  it  means  "  tale,"  and  it  has  a  relation 
to  the  primary  meaning  of  the  verb,  which  is 
to  place.  The  words  that  are  put  down  be- 
come a  "  put,"  and  the  writer  becomes  a  "  put- 
ter." To  a  lady  who  told  her  that  she  had 
heard  a  sound  like  a  bell  in  her  ear,  and  asked 
if  it  was  Patience  trying  to  communicate  with 
her,  she  answered  dryly:  "Think  ye  I  be  a 


CONVERSATIONS  187 

tinkler  o'  brass?  Nay.  I  be  a  putter  o' 
words."  Further  to  illustrate  this  use  of  the 
word,  and  also  to  throw  an  interesting  light 
upon  her  method  of  communication  and  the 
reason  for  it,  I  present  here  a  part  of  a  conver- 
sation in  which  a  Dr.  Z.  was  the  interrogator. 

Dr.  Z. — "  Why  isn't  there  some  other  means 
you  could  use  more  easy  to  manipulate  than 
the  ouija  board? " 

Patience. — "  The  hand  o'  her  (Mrs.  Curran) 
do  I  to  put  (write)  be  the  hand  o'  her,  and  'tis 
ascribe  (the  act  of  writing)  that  setteth  the  one 
awhither  by  eyes-fulls  she  taketh  in." 

By  this  she  seems  to  mean  that  if  Mrs.  Cur- 
ran  tried  to  write  for  Patience  with  a  pen  or 
pencil,  the  act,  being  always  associated  with 
conscious  thought,  would  set  her  consciousness 
to  work,  and  put  Patience  "  awhither." 

Dr.  Z. — "  How  did  you  know  this  avenue 
was  open?  " 

Patience. — "  I  did  to  seek  at  crannies  for  to 
put;  aye,  and  'twer  the  her  o'  her  who  tireth 
past  the  her  o'  her,  and  slippeth  to  a  naught  o' 


188  PATIENCE  WORTH 

putting;  and  'twer  the  me  o'  me  at  seek,  aye, 
and  find.  Aye,  and  'twer  so." 

At  the  time  Patience  first  presented  herself 
to  Mrs.  Curran,  she  (Mrs.  Curran)  was  very 
tired,  and  was  sitting  at  the  board  with  Mrs. 
Hutchings,  with  her  head,  as  she  expresses  it, 
absolutely  empty. 

Dr.  Z. — "  Did  you  go  forth  to  seek,  or  were 
you  sent? " 

Patience. — "  There  be  nay  tracker  o'  path 
ne'er  put  thereon  by  sender." 

Dr.  Z. — "  Did  you  know  of  the  ouija  board 
and  its  use  before?  " 

Patience. — "  Nay,  'tis  not  the  put  o'  me,  the 
word  hereon.  'Tis  the  put  o'  me  at  see  o' 
her. 

"  I  put  athin  the  see  o'  her,  aye  and  'tis  the 
see  o'  ye  that  be  afulled  o'  the  put  o'  me,  and 
yet  a  put  thou  knowest  not. 

"  That  which  ye  know  not  o'  thy  day  hath 
slipped  it  unto  her,  and  thence  unto  thee.  And 
thee  knowest  'tis  not  the  put  o'  her;  aye,  and 
thee  knowest  'tis  ne'er  a  putter  o'  thy  day  there 
be  at  such  an  put.  Aye,  and  did  he  to  put, 


CONVERSATIONS  189 

'twould  be  o'  thy  day  and  not  the  day  o'  me. 
And  yet  ye  prate  o'  why  and  whence  and 
where.  I  tell  thee  'tis  thee  that  knowest  that 
which  ye  own  not." 

Dr.  Z.—"  Why  don't  we  own  it,  Patience?  " 
Patience.—  '  'Tis  at  fear  o'  gab." 
It  is  no  easy  task  to  untangle  that  putting 
of  puts,  but,  briefly,  it  seems  to  mean  that  Pa- 
tience does  not  put  her  words  on  the  board 
direct,  with  the  hands  of  Mrs.  Curran,  but 
transmits  her  words  through  the  mind  or  inner 
vision  of  Mrs.  Curran,  and  yet  it  is  the  word  of 
Patience  and  not  of  Mrs.  Curran  that  is  re- 
corded. This  accords  with  Mrs.  Curran's  im- 
pressions. And  thou  knowest,  Patience  far- 
ther says,  that  it  is  not  the  language  of  her, 
and  no  writer  of  thy  day  would  or  could  write 
in  such  a  language  as  I  make  use  of. 

Returning  to  Dr.  X.  and  his  party.  They 
were  present  again  a  few  days  after  the  inter- 
view just  given,  having  with  them  a  Miss  J., 
a  newspaper  writer  from  an  Ohio  city.  Dr.  X. 
in  the  meantime  had  thought  much  upon  the 


190  PATIENCE  WORTH 

phenomena,  and  Patience  immediately  di- 
rected her  guns  upon  the  anatomist,  in  this 
manner : 

Patience. — "  Hark  ye,  lad,  unto  thee  I  do 
speak.  Thou  hast  a  sack  o'  the  wares  o'  me, 
and  thou  hast  eat  therefrom.  Yea,  and  thou 
hast  spat  that  which  thou  did'st  eat,  and  eat  it 
o'er.  And  yet  thou  art  not  afulled. 

"  Hark!  Here  be  a  trick  that  shall  best  thee 
at  thine  own  trick.  Lo,  thou  lookest  upon  flesh 
and  it  be  but  flesh.  Yea,  thou  lookest  unto  thy 
brother,  and  see  but  flesh.  And  yet  thy 
brother  speakest  word,  and  thou  sayest :  '  Yea, 
this  is  a  man,  aye,  the  brother  o'  me.'  Then 
doth  death  lay  low  thy  brother,  and  he  speak 
not  word  unto  thee,  thou  sayest :  '  Nay,  this  is 
no  man;  nay,  this  is  but  clay.'  Then  lookest 
thou  unto  thy  brother,  and  thou  seest  not  the 
him  o'  him.  Thou  knowest  not  the  him  o'  him 
(the  soul)  but  the  flesh  o'  him  only. 

"  More  I  tell  thee.  Thy  very  babe  wert  not 
flesh;  yea,  it  were  as  dead  afore  the  coming. 
Yet,  at  the  mother's  bearing,  it  setteth  within 
the  flesh.  And  thou  knowest  it  and  speak,  yea, 


CONVERSATIONS  191 

this  is  a  man.  And  yet  I  tell  thee  thou  know- 
est  riot  e'en  the  him  o'  him!  Then  doth  it  die, 
'tis  nay  man,  thou  sayest.  Yet,  at  the  dying 
and  afore  the  bearing,  'twer  what?  The  him 
o'  him  wert  then,  and  now,  and  ever. 

*  Yea,  I  speak  unto  thee  not  through  flesh, 
and  thou  sayest :  This  is  no  man,  yea,  for  thine 
eyes  see  not  flesh,  yet  thou  knowest  the  me  o' 
me,  and  I  speak  unto  thee  with  the  me  o'  me. 
And  thou  art  where  upon  thy  path  o'  learn- 
ing!" 
f 

There  was  some  discussion  following  this 
argument  in  which  Dr.  X.  admitted  that  he 
accepted  only  material  facts  and  believed  but 
what  he  saw. 

Patience. — "  Man  maketh  temples  that  reach 
them  unto  the  skies,  and  yet  He  fashioneth  a 
gnat,  and  where  be  man's  learning ! 

'  The  earth  is  full  o'  what  the  blind  in-man 
seeth  not.  Ope  thine  eye,  lad.  Thou  art 
athin  dark,  and  yet  drink  ye  ever  o'  the 

light." 

Dr.  X.—"  That's  all  right,  Patience,  and  a 


192  PATIENCE  WORTH 

good  argument;  but  tell  me  where  the  him  o' 
him  of  my  dog  is." 

Patience. — "  Thou  art  ahungered  for  what 
be  thine  at  the  hand  o'  thee.  Thy  dog  hath  far 
more  o'  Him  than  thy  brothers  who  set  them 
as  dogs  and  eat  o'  dog's  eat.  The  One  o'  One, 
the  All  o'  All,  yea,  all  o'  life  holdeth  the  Him 
o'  Him,  thy  Sire  and  mine!  'Tis  the  breath  o' 
Him  that  pulses  earth.  Thou  asketh  where 
abides  this  thing.  Aneath  thy  skull's  arch  there 
be  nay  room  for  the  there  or  where  o'  this!  " 

Miss  J.  then  took  the  board  and  Patience 
said: 

"  She  taketh  it  she  standeth  well  athin  the 
sight  o'  me  that  she  weareth  the  frock  o'  me." 

This  caused  a  laugh,  for  it  was  then  ex- 
plained by  the  visitors  that  Miss  J.  had  chosen 
to  wear  a  frock  somewhat  on  the  Puritan 
order,  having  a  gray  cape  with  white  cuffs  and 
collar,  and  had  said  she  thought  Patience 
would  approve  of  it. 

Patience. — "  Here  be  a  one  aheart  ope,  and 
she  hath  the  in-man  who  she  proddeth  that  he 


CONVERSATIONS  193 

opeth  his  eyes.  Yea,  she  seest  that  which  be 
and  thou  seest  not." 

It  was  remarked  that  Patience  was  evidently 
trying  to  be  very  nice  to  Miss  J. 

Patience. — "  Nay,  here  be  a  one  who  tickleth 
with  quill,  I  did  hear  ye  put.  Think  ye  not  a 
one  who  putteth  as  me,  be  not  a  love  o'  me? 
Yea,  she  be.  And  I  tell  thee  a  something  that 
she  will  tell  unto  ye  is  true.  Oft  hath  she 
sought  for  word  that  she  might  put,  and  lo, 
from  whence  she  knoweth  not  it  cometh." 

Miss  J.  said  this  was  true. 

Patience. — "  Shall  'I  then  sing  unto  thee, 
wench? " 

Miss  J.  expressed  delight,  and  the  song  fol- 
lowed. 

Ah,  how  do  I  to  build  me  up  my  song  for  thee? 
Yea,  and  tell  unto  thee  of  Him. 
I'd  shew  unto  thee  His  loving, 
I'd  shew  unto  thee  His  very  face. 
Do  then  to  list  to  this  my  song. 

Early  hours,  strip  o'  thy  pure. 
For  'tis  the  heart  of  Him. 


PATIENCE  WORTH 

Earth,  breathe  deep  thy  busom, 
Yea,  and  rock  the  sea, 
For  'tis  the  breath  of  Him. 
Fields,  burst  ope  thy  sod, 
And  fling  thee  loose  thy  store, 
For  'tis  the  robe  of  Him. 
Skies,  shed  thou  thy  blue, 
The  depth  of  heaven, 
For  'tis  the  eyes  of  Him. 
Winter's  white,  stand  thou  thick 
And  shed  thy  soft  o'er  earth, 
For  'tis  the  touch  of  Him. 
Spring,  shed  thou  thy  loosened 
Laughter  of  the  streams, 
For  'tis  the  voice  of  Him. 
Noon's  heat,  and  tire  o'  earth, 
Shed  thou  of  rest  to  His, 
For  'tis  the  rest  of  Him. 
Evil  days  of  earth, 
Stride  thou  on  and  smite, 
For  'tis  the  frown  of  Him. 

Earth,  this,  the  chant  o'  me, 

May  end,  as  doth  the  works  o'  man, 

But  hark  ye ;  Earth  holdeth  all 

That  hath  been ; 

And  Spring's  ope,  and  sowing 

O'  the  Winter's  tide, 


CONVERSATIONS  195 

Shall  bear  the  Summer's  full 
Of  that  that  be  no  more. 

For,  at  the  waking  o'  the  Spring, 
The  wraiths  o'  blooms  agone 
Shall  rise  them  up  from  out  the  mould 
And  speak  to  thee  of  Him. 

Thus,  the  songs  o'  me, 
The  works  o'  thee, 
The  Earth's  own  bloom, 
Are  HIM. 

The  interest  of  Dr.  X.  in  this  phenomenon 
brought  an  eminent  psychologist,  associated 
with  one  of  the  greatest  state  universities  in 
the  country,  some  distance  from  Missouri,  for 
an  interview  with  Patience.  He  shall  be  known 
here  as  Dr.  V.  With  him  and  Dr.  X.  was  Dr. 
K.,  a  physician.  Dr.  V.  sat  at  the  board  first, 
and  Patience  said  to  him: 

"  Here  be  a  one,  verily,  that  hath  a  sword. 
Aye,  and  he  doth  to  wrap  it  o'er  o'  silks.  Yea, 
but  I  do  say  unto  thee,  he  doth  set  the  cups  o' 
measure  at  aright,  and  doth  set  not  the  word 
o'  me  as  her  ahere  (Mrs.  Curran) .  Nay,  not 
till  he  hath  seen  and  tasted  o'  the  loaf  o'  me; 


196  PATIENCE  WORTH 

and  e'en  athen  he  would  to  take  o'  the  loaf  and 
crumb  o'  it  to  bits  and  look  unto  the  crumb 
and  wag  much  afore  he  putteth.  And  he  wilt 
be  assured  o'  the  truth  afore  the  putting." 

This  was  discussed  as  a  character  delinea- 
tion. 

Patience. — "  I'd  set  at  reasoning.  Since  the 
townsmen  do  fetch  aforth  for  the  seek  o'  me, 
and  pry  aneath  the  me  o'  me,  then  do  thou 
alike.  Yea,  put  thou  unto  me." 

Dr.  r.—"  Why  fear  Death?  " 

Patience. — "  Thou  shouldst  eat  o'  the  loaf 
(her  writings) .  Ayea,  'tis  right  and  meet  that 
flesh  shrinketh  at  the  lash." 

Dr.  V.  was  told  of  her  poems  on  the  fear  of 
death. 

Dr.  F.—"  What  do  you  think  of  the  at- 
tempts to  investigate  you?  Is  it  right?  " 

Patience. — "  Ayea.  And  thou  hast  o'  me 
the  loaf  o'  the  me  o'  me,  and  thou  hast  o'  it 
afar  more  than  thou  hast  o'  thy  brother  o' 
earth,  and  yet  they  seek  o'  me  and  seek  ever." 

Dr.  V. — "  Have  you  ever  lived?  " 

Patience.—  '  What!    Think  ye  that  I  be  a 


CONVERSATIONS  197 

prater  o'  thy  path  and  ne'er  atrod?  Then 
thou  art  afollied,  for  canst  thou  tell  o'  here? " 

Dr.  V.—"  When  did  you  live  on  earth? " 

Patience. — "  A  seed  aplanted  be  watched 
for  grow.  Ayea,  but  the  seed  held  athin  the 
palm  be  but  a  seed,  and  Earth  hath  seeds  not 
aplanted  that  she  casteth  forth,  e'en  as  she 
would  to  cast  forth  me,  do  I  not  to  cloak  me 
much." 

Dr.  V. — "I  understand;  but  can  you  not 
answer  a  little  clearer  the  question  I  put?  " 

Patience. — "  The  time  be  not  ariped  for  the 
put  o'  this." 

Dr.  V.—"  What  does  Lethe  mean?  " 

V 

Patience. — "  This  be  a  tracker!  Ayea,  'tis 
nay  a  word  o'  thy  day  or  yet  the  word  o'  thy 
brother,  that  meaneth  unto  me.  I  be  a  maker 
o'  loaf  for  the  hungered.  Eat  thou.  'Tis  not 
aright  that  thou  shouldst  set  unto  the  feast 
athout  thou  art  fed." 

By  this  she  seemed  to  mean  that  she  wanted 
him  to  read  her  writings  and  see  what  it  is  she 
is  endeavoring  to  do.  She  continued : 

"  Brother,  this  be  not  a  trapping  o'  thy 


198  PATIENCE  WORTH 

sword,  the  seeking  o'  me.  Nay,  'tis  ahind  a 
cloak  I  do  for  to  stand,  that  this  word  abe,  and 
not  me." 

Mr.  Curran  here  stated  that  this  had  ever 
been  so ;  that  Patience  had  obscured  herself  so 
that  her  message  could  not  be  clouded. 

Patience. — "  Aright.    I  do  sing. 

Gone !    Gone !    Ayea,  thou  art  gone ! 
Gone,  and  earth  doth  stand  it  stark. 
Gone !    Gone !    The  even's  breath 
Doth  breathe  it  unto  me 
In  echo  soft;  yea,  but  sharped, 
And  cutting  o'  this  heart. 

Gone!    Gonel    Aye,  thou  art  gone! 

The  day  is  darked,  and  sun 

Hath  sorried  sore  and  wrapped  him  in  the  dark. 

Gone !    Gone !    This  heart  doth  drip  o'  drops 

With  sorry  singing  o'  this  song. 

Gone!     Gone!     Yea,  thou  art  gone! 

And  where,  beloved,  where? 

Doth  yonder  golden  shaft  o'  light 

That  pierceth  o'  the  cloud 

Then  speak  unto  this  heart? 

Art  thou  athin  the  day's  dark  hours? 


CONVERSATIONS  199 

Hast  thou  then  hid  from  sight  o*  me, 
And  yet  do  know  mine  hour? 

Gone !    Gone !    What  then  hath  Earth? 
What  then  doth  day  to  bring 
To  this  the  sorry-laden  heart  o'  me, 
That  weepeth  blood  drops  here? 

Gone!    Gone!    Yea,  but  hark! 

For  I  did  trick  the  sorry,  loved ; 

For  where  e'er  thou  art  am  I. 

Yea,  this  love  o'  me  shall  follow  thee 

Unto  the  Where,  and  thou  shalt  ever  know 

That  though  this  sorry  setteth  me 

I  be  where'er  thou  art." 

After  this  Dr.  K.,  who  resides  in  St.  Louis, 
took  the  board. 

Patience. — "  Here  abe  a  townsman.  Aye, 
a  Sirrah  who  knoweth  men  and  atruth  doth 
ne'er  acloak  the  blade  o'  him  as  doth  brother 
ayonder.  Ayea,  ahind  a  chuckle  beeth  fires. 

"  There  abe  weave  'pon  the  cloth  o'  me,  yea, 
but  'tis  nay  ariped  the  time  that  I  do  weave. 
Yea,  thou  hast  a  pack  o'  tricks.  Show  unto 
me,  then,  thine." 

Here  Dr.  V.  asked:  "Do  you  know  Dr. 
James?" 


200  PATIENCE  WORTH 

This  referred  to  the  late  Dr.  William  James, 
the  celebrated  psychologist  of  Harvard. 

Patience. — "  I  telled  a  one  o'  the  brothers 
and  the  neighbors  o'  thy  day,  and  he  doth 
know." 

She  had  given  such  an  answer  to  a  frequent 
visitor  who  had  inquired  as  to  her  knowledge 
of  several  eminent  men  long  since  dead.  It 
was  considered  an  affirmative  answer. 

Dr.  V. — "  Have  you  associated  with  Dr. 
James?" 

Patience. — "Hark!  Unto  thee  I  do  say 
athis;  'tis  the  day's  break  and  Earth  shall 
know,  e'en  athin  thy  day,  much  o'  the  Here. 

'  This,  the  brother  o'  ye,  the  seeker  o'  the 
Here,  hath  set  a  promise  so,  and  'tis  for  to  be, 
I  say  unto  thee.  Thou  knowest  'tis  the  word 
o'  him  spaked  in  loving.  Yea,  for  such  a  man 
as  the  man  o'  him  wert,  standeth  as  a  beacon 
unto  the  Here." 

Dr.  V. — "  Could  Dr.  James,  by  seeking  as 
you  did,  communicate  with  someone  here  as 
you  are  doing?  " 

Patience. — "  This  abe  so ;  he  who  seeketh  abe 


CONVERSATIONS  201 

alike  unto  thee  and  thee.  Ayea,  thee  and  thy 
brother  do  set  forth  with  quill,  and  thou  dost 
set  aslant,  and  with  thy  hand  at  the  right  o' 
thee.  And  thy  brother  doth  trace  with  the 
hand  at  the  left  of  him.  And  'tis  so,  thou  put- 
test  not  as  him.  This,  the  quill  o'  me,  be  for 
the  put  o'  me,  and  doth  he  seek  and  know  the 
trick  o'  tricks  o'  sending  out  a  music  with  the 
quill  o'  me,  it  might  then  be  so." 

This  was  interpreted  as  meaning  that  if  Dr. 
James  could  find  one  who  had  the  conditions 
surrounding  Mrs.  Curran,  and  was  able  to 
master  the  rhythm  which  Patience  uses  to  give 
the  matter  to  her,  then  he  could  do  it. 

When  the  record  of  the  foregoing  interview 
was  being  copied,  Mrs.  Curran  felt  an  impulse 
to  write.  Taking  the  board,  Patience  indicated 
that  she  had  called,  and  at  once  set  forth,  ap- 
parently for  Dr.  V.,  the  following  explanation 
of  her  method  of  communication  and  the  prin- 
ciple upon  which  it  is  based : 

Patience. — "  Aye,  'tis  a  tickle  I  be.  Hark, 
there  be  a  pulse — Nay,  she  (Mrs.  Curran) 
putteth  o'  the  word!  Alist. — There  abe  a 


PATIENCE  WORTH 

throb;  yea,  the  songs  o'  Earth  each  do  throb 
them,  like  unto  the  throbbing  o'  the  heart  that 
beareth  them.  Yea,  and  there  be  a  kinsman  o' 
the  heart  that  beareth  them.  Yea,  and  there 
be  a  kinsman  o'  thee  who  throbbeth  as  dost 
thou.  Yea,  and  he  knoweth  thee  as  doth  nay 
brother  o'  thee  whose  throb  be  not  as  thine. 
So  'tis,  the  drop  that  f  alleth  athin  the  sea,  doth 
sound  out  a  silvered  note  that  no  man  heareth. 
Yet  its  brother  drops  and  the  drop  o'  it  do  to 
make  o'  the  sea's  voice.  Aye,  and  the  throb  o' 
the  sea  be  the  throb  o'  it.  So,  doth  thy  brother 
seek  out  that  he  make  word  unto  thee  from  the 
Here,  he  then  falleth  aweary.  For  thee  of 
Earth  do  hark  not  unto  the  throb.  And  be  the 
one  aseeked  not  attuned  unto  the  throb  o'  him 
he  findeth,  'tis  nay  music.  So  'tis,  what  be  the 
throb  o'  me  and  the  throb  o'  her  ahere,  be  nay 
a  throb  o'  music's  weave  for  him  aseek. 

"  I  tell  thee  more.  The  throb  hath  come 
unto  thy  day  long  and  long.  Yea,  they  be 
afulled  o'  throb,  and  yet  nay  man  taketh  up 
the  throbbing  as  doth  the  sea.  The  drop  o'  me 
did  seek  and  find,  and  throb  met  throb  o' 


CONVERSATIONS  203 

loving.  Yea,  and  even  as  doth  the  sea  to 
throb  out  the  silvered  note  o'  drop,  even  so 
doth  she  to  throb  out  the  love  o'  me." 

This  seems,  in  effect,  a  declaration  that  com- 
munications of  this  character  are  a  matter  of 
attunement,  possible  only  between  two  natures 
of  identical  vibrations,  one  seeking  and  the 
other  receptive.  It  indicates  too  that  her 
rhythmical  speech  has  an  influence  upon 
the  facility  of  her  utterances.  At  another 
time  she  described  her  own  seeking  in  this 
verse : 

How  have  I  sought! 

Yea,  how  have  I  asought, 

And  seeked  me  ever  through  the  earth's  hours, 

Amid  the  damp,  cool  moon,  when  winged  scrape 

Doth  sound  and  cry  unto  the  day 

The  waking  o'  the  hosts ! 

Yea,  and  'mid  the  noon's  heat, 

When  Earth  doth  wither  'neath  the  sun, 

And  rose  doth  droop  from  sun's-kiss, 

That  stole  the  dew ;  and  'mid  the  wastes 

O'  water  where  they  whirl  and  rage, 

And  seeked  o'  word  that  I 

Might  put  to  answer  thee. 


204  PATIENCE  WORTH 

Ayea,  from  days  have  I  then  stripped 

The  fulness  of  their  joys,  and  pryed 

The  very  buds  that  they  might  ope  for  thee. 

Aye,  and  sought  the  days  apast, 

That  I  might  sing  them  unto  thee. 

And  ever,  ever,  cometh  unto  me 

Thy  song  o'  why?  why?  why? 

And  then,  lo,  I  found  athin  this  heart 

The  answer  to  thy  song. 

Aye,  it  chanteth  sweet  unto  this  ear, 

And  filleth  up  the  song. 

Do  hark  thee,  hark  unto  the  song, 

For  answer  to  thy  why  ?  why  ?  why  ? 

I  sing  me  Give !  Give !  Give ! 

Aye,  ever  Give! 

When  the  foregoing  verse  was  received,  Dr. 
X.  was  again  present,  this  time  with  his  wife 
and  two  physicians,  Dr.  R.  and  Dr.  P.  It  will 
have  been  observed  that  many  doctors  of  many 
kinds  have  "  sat  at  the  feet "  of  Patience 
Worth,  but  all,  as  I  have  said,  have  come  as 
the  friends  of  friends  of  Mrs.  Curran,  upon 
her  invitation,  or  upon  that  of  Mr.  Curran. 
On  this  occasion  Patience  began: 

"They  do  seek  o'  me,  ever;  that  they  do 


CONVERSATIONS  205 

see  the  pettiskirt  o'  me,  and  eat  not  o'  the  loaf! 
(More  interested  in  the  phenomenon  than  the 
words.)  Ayea,  but  he  ahere  (Dr.  R.)  hath  a 
wise  pate.  Aye,  he  seeketh,  and  deep  athin  the 
heart  o'  him  sinketh  seed  o'  the  word  o'  me. 
Aye,  even  though  he  doth  see  the  me  o'  m£ 
athrough  the  sage's  eye  o'  him,  still  shall  he 
to  love  the  word  o'  me." 

After  due  acknowledgments  from  Dr.  R., 
she  continued: 

*•  "  Yea,  brother,  hark  unto  the  word  o'  me, 
for  thou  dost  seek  amid  the  fields  o'  Him! 
Aye,  and  'tis,  thou  knowest,  earth's  men  that 
be  afar  amore  awry  athin  the  in-man  than  in 
the  flesh.  And  'tis  the  in-man  o'  men  thou 
knowest." 

Dr.  R.,  a  neurologist,  gave  hearty  assent. 

"  Put  thou  unto  me.  (Question  me.)  'Tis 
awish  I  be  that  ye  weave." 

Dr.  R. — "Do  you  see  through  Mrs.'Cur- 
ran's  eyes  and  hear  through  her  ears? " 

Patience. — "  Even  as  thou  hast  spoke,  it  be. 
Aye,  and  yet  I  say  me  'tis  the  me  o'  me  that 
knoweth  much  she  heareth  and  seeth  not." 


206  PATIENCE  WORTH 

Then  to  a  question  had  she  ever  talked  be- 
fore with  anyone,  she  said :  "  Anaught  save  the 
flesh  o'  me." 

"  Fetch  ye  the  wheel,"  she  commanded, 
"  that  I  do  sit  and  spin." 

This  was  one  of  her  ways  of  saying  that  she 
desired  to  write  on  her  story,  and  she  dictated 
several  hundred  words  of  it,  after  which  Dr.  P. 
took  the  board  and  she  said: 

"  What  abe  ahere?  A  one  who  seeth  sorry 
and  maketh  merry!  Yea,  a  one  who  leaveth 
the  right  hand  o'  him  unto  its  task,  and  setteth 
his  left  at  doing  awry  o'  the  task  o'  its  brothers. 
Aye,  he  doeth  the  labors  o'  his  brother,  aye, 
and  him.  Do  then,  aweave." 

In  compliance  some  more  of  the  story  was 
written,  and  then  Dr.  R.  "  wondered  "  why  he 
could  not  write  for  Patience,  to  which  she  an- 
swered: 

"  Hark  unto  me,  thou  aside.  Thou  shalt 
put  (say)  'tis  her  ahere  (i.e.,  Mrs.  Curran,  who 
does  it) ;  ayea,  and  say  much  o'  word,  and  e'en 
set  down  athin  thy  heart  thy  word  o'  what  I 
be,  and  yet  I  tell  thee,  I  be  me!  Aye,  ever, 


CONVERSATIONS  207 

and  the  word  o'  me  shall  stand,  e'en  when  thou 
and  thou  art  ne'er  ahere ! 

"E'en  he  who  doth  know  not  o'  the  Here 
hath  felt  the  tickle  o'  my  word,  and  seeketh 
much  this  hearth. 

"  Then  eat  thee  well  and  fill  thee  up,  and 
drink  not  o'  the  brew  o'  me  and  spat  forth  the 
sup.  Nay,  fill  up  thy  paunch.  'Twill  merry 
thee!" 

Dr.  P.  asked  her  a  question  about  her  looks. 

"  'Tis  a  piddle  he  putteth,"  she  said. 

And  now  we  come  to  a  sitting  of  a  lighter 
character.  There  were  present  at  this  Dr.  and 
Mrs.  D.,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  M.  and  Mrs.  and 
Miss  G. 

"  Aflurry  I  be!  "  cried  Patience.  "  Aye,  for 
the  pack  o'  me  be  afulled  o'  song  and  weave, 
and  e'en  word  to  them  ahere. 

6  Yea,  but  afirst  there  be  a  weave,  for  the 
thrift-bite  eateth  o'  me."  (The  bite  of  her 
thrifty  nature.) 

Some  of  the  story  followed  and  then  she  said 
to  Mrs.  M.,  who  sat  at  the  board: 


208  PATIENCE  WORTH 

"  Here  be  aone  who  doth  to  lift  up  the  lid 
o'  the  brew's  pot,  that  she  see  athin!  Aye, 
Dame,  there  abe  but  sweets  athin  the  brew  for 
thee.  Amore,  for  e'en  tho'  I  do  brew  o'  sweets 
and  tell  unto  thee,  I  be  a  dealer  o'  sours  do  I 
to  choose!  Ayea,  and  did  I  to  put  the  spatting 
o'  thee  athin  the  brew,  aye  verily  'twould  be 
asoured  a  bit!  "  Then  deprecatingly :  "  'Tis  a 
piddle  I  put! 

"  Yea,  for  him  aside  who  sitteth  that  he 
drink  o'  this  brew  do  I  to  sing;  fetch  thee 
aside,  thee  the  trickster  o'  thy  day! " 

There  being  so  many  "  tricksters  "  in  the 
room,  they  were  at  a  loss  to  know  which  one 
she  meant.  Mr.  C.  asked  if  she  meant  Dr.  D., 
but  Patience  said: 

"  Thinkest  thou  he  who  setteth  astraight  the 
wry  doth  piddle  o'  a  song?  Anay,  to  him  who 
musics  do  I  to  sing." 

This  referred  to  Mr.  G.,  who  is  a  musician 
and  a  composer,  and  he  took  the  board.  Pa- 
tience at  once  gave  him  this  song : 

Nodding,  nodding,  'pon  thy  stem, 
Thou  bloom  o'  morn, 


CONVERSATIONS  209 

Nodding,  nodding  to  the  bees, 

Asearch  o'  honey's  sweet. 

Wilt  thou  to  droop  and  wilt  the  dance  o'  thee, 

To  vanish  with  the  going  o'  the  day? 

Hath  the  tearing  o'  the  air  o'  thy  sharped  thorn 

Sent  musics  up  unto  the  bright, 

Or  doth  thy  dance  to  mean  anaught 

Save  breeze-kiss  'pon  thy  bloom? 

Hath  yonder  songster  harked  to  thee, 

And  doth  he  sing  thy  love? 

Or  hath  he  tuned  his  song  of  world's  wailing  o'  the 

day? 

Doth  morn  shew  thee  naught  save  thy  garden's  wall 
That  shutteth  thee  away,  a  treasure  o'  thy  day? 
Doth  yonder  hum  then  spell  anaught, 
Save  whirring  o'  the  wing  that  hovereth 
O'er  thy  bud  to  sup  the  sweet? 

Ah,  garden's  deep,  afulled  o'  fairies'  word, 
And  creeped  o'er  with  winged  mites, 
Where  but  the  raindrops' patter  telleth  thee  His  love — 
Doth  all  this  vanish  then,  at  closing  o'  the  day? 
Anay.    For  He  hath  made  a  one  who  seeketh  here, 
And  storeth  drops,  and  song,  and  hum,  and  sweets, 
And  of  these  weaveth  garland  for  the  earth. 
From  off  his  lute  doth  drip  the  day  of  Him. 


210  PATIENCE  WORTH 

Patience  then  turned  her  attention  to  Mr. 
M.,  saying: 

"  Ayea,  he  standeth  afar  from  the  feasting 
place  and  doth  to  smack  him  much!  " 

Mr.  M.  took  the  board,  and  she  began  to 
talk  to  him  in  an  intimate  way  about  the  vary- 
ing attitudes  of  people  toward  her  and  her 
work,  and  what  they  say  of  her: 

"  I  be  a  dame  atruth,"  she  said,  "  and  I  tell 
thee  the  word  o'  wag  that  shall  set  thy  day, 
meaneth  anaught  but  merry  to  me.  Hark!  I 
put  a  murmur  o'  thy  day,  for  at  the  supping  o' 
this  cup  the  earth  shall  murmur  so: 

"  'Tis  but  the  chatter  o'  a  wag!  Aye,  the 
putting  o'  the  mad!  'Tis  piddle!  Yea,  the 
trapping  o'  a  fool !  Yea,  'tis  but  the  dreaming 
o'  the  waked!  Aye,  the  word  o'  a  wicked 
sprite!  Yea,  and  telleth  naught  and  putteth 
naught! 

"  And  yet,  do  harken  unto  me.  They  then 
shall  seek  to  taste  the  brew  and  sniff  the  whiff- 
ing o'  the  scent;  ayea,  and  stop  alonger  that 
they  feast !  And  lo,  'twill  set  some  asoured,  and 
some  asweet;  aye  and  some,  ato  (too),  shall 


CONVERSATIONS 

fill  them  upon  the  words  THEY  do  to  put  o' 
me,  and  find  them  filled  o'  their  own  put,  and 
lack  the  room  for  eat  o'  the  loaf  o'  me.  'Tis 
piddle,  then!  Aye,  and  yet  I  say  me  so,  'tis 
bread,  and  bread  be  eat  though  it  be  but  spar- 
rows that  do  seek  the  crumb.  Then  what  care 
ye?  For  bake  asurely  shall  be  eat! " 

This  is  a  point  she  often  makes,  and  strives 
earnestly  to  impress — that  whatever  she  may 
be,  whatever  the  world  may  think  she  is,  there 
is  substance  in  her  words.  It  is  bread,  and 
will  be  eaten,  if  only  by  the  sparrows.  So,  she 
is  content.  She  has  put  this  thought,  some- 
what pathetically,  into  the  little  verse  which 
follows : 

Loth  as  Night  to  dark  o5  Day, 

Loth  do  I  to  sing. 

Aye,  but  doth  the  Day  aneed  a  song, 

'Tis  they,  o'  Him, 

The  songsters  o'  the  Earth, 

Do  sing  them  on,  to  Him. 

What  though  'tis  asmiled?    And  what 

Though  'tis  nay  aseeked  o'  such  a  song? 

Aye,  what  though  'tis  sung  'mid  dark? 


PATIENCE  WORTH 

'Tis  I  would  sing, 

Do  thee  to  list,  or  nay. 


"  I  be  a  dame  who  knoweth  o'  the  hearth. 
Aye,  and  do  to  know  o'  the  hearts  o'  men,"  she 
said  to  Mrs.  D.,  who  next  took  the  place  with 
Mrs.  Curran.  "  Ayea,  and  do  to  put  o'  that 
athin  the  hearts  o'  them  that  doth  tickle  o'  their 
merry!  This  be  a  tale  for  her  ahere." 

* 

THE  STORY  OF  THE  HERBS 

"  Lo,  there  wert  a  dame  and  her  neighbor's 
dame  and  her  neighbor's  dame.  And  they  did 
to  plant  them  o'  their  gardens  full.  And  lo, 
at  a  day  did  come  unto  the  garden's  ope  a 
stranger,  who  bore  him  of  a  bloom-topped 
herb.  And  lo,  he  spaked  unto  the  dame  who 
stood  athin  the  sun-niche  that  lay  at  the  gar- 
den's end,  and  he  did  tell  unto  her  of  the  herb 
he  bore.  And  lo,  he  told  that  he  would  give 
unto  her  one  of  these,  and  to  her  neighbor 
dame  a  one,  atoo  (also),  and  to  her  neighbor 
dame  a  one  atoo,  and  he  then  would  leave  the 


CONVERSATIONS 

garden's  place  and  come  at  the  fulling  o'  the 
season-tide  when  winter's  bite  did  sear,  and 
that  he  then  would  seek  them  out,  and  they 
should  shew  unto  him  the  fulling  o'  the  herb. 

"  And  lo,  he  went  him  out  unto  the  neigh- 
bor's dame  and  telled  unto  her  the  same,  and 
to  her  neighbor's  dame  the  same,  and  they  did 
seek  one  the  other  and  tell  o'  all  the  stranger 
had  told  unto  them.  And  each  had  sorry,  for 
feared  'twer  the  cunger  o'  the  wise  men,  and 
each  aspoke  her  that  she  would  to  care  and 
care  for  this  the  herb  he  did  to  leave,  and  that 
she  would  have  at  the  fulling  o'  the  season  the 
herb  that  stood  at  the  fullest  bloom.  And  each 
o'  the  dames  did  speak  it  that  this  herb  o'  her 
should  be  the  one  waxed  stronger  at  the  full- 
ing. And  lo,  none  told  unto  the  other  o'  how 
this  would  to  be. 

"  And  lo,  the  first  o'  dames  did  plant  her 
herb  adeep  and  speak  little,  and  lo,  her  neigh- 
bor dames  did  word  much  o'  the  planting,  and 
carried  drops  from  out  the  well  that  the  herbs 
might  full.  And  lo,,  they  did  pluck  o'  the  first 
bud  that  them  that  did  follow  should  be 


PATIENCE  WORTH 

afuller.  And  lo,  the  dame  afirst  o'  the  garden 
the  stranger  did  to  seek,  did  look  with  sunked 
heart  at  the  thriving  o'  the  herbs  o'  the  neigh- 
bor dames.  And  lo,  she  wept  thereon,  and 
'twer  that  her  well  did  dry,  and  yet  she  seeked 
not  the  wells  of  her  sisters.  Nay,  but  did  weep 
upon  the  earth  about  the  herb,  and  lo,  it  did 
to  spring  it  up.  And  lo,  she  looked  not  with 
greed  upon  her  sister's  herb;  nay,  for  at  the 
caring  for  the  bloom,  lo,  she  loved  its  bud  and 
wept  that  she  had  nay  drop  to  give  as  drink 
unto  it. 

"  And  lo,  at  a  certain  day  the  stranger  came 
and  did  seek  the  dames,  and  came  him  unto 
her  garden  where  the  herb  did  stand,  and  he 
bore  the  herbs  of  her  sisters,  and  they  wert  tall 
and  full  grown  and  filled  o'  bloom.  And  he 
did  to  put  the  herb  o'  her  sisters  anext  the  herb 
o'  her,  and  lo,  the  herb  o'  her  did  spring  it  up, 
and  them  o'  her  Sisters  shrunked  to  but  a  twig. 
And  he  did  call  unto  the  dames  and  spake: 

'  Lo,  have  ye  but  fed  thy  herb  that  it  be 
full  o'  bloom,  that  thou  shouldst  glad  thee  o'er 
thy  sister?  And  lo,  the  herb  o'  her  hath 


CONVERSATIONS  215 

drunked  her  tears  shed  o'  loving,  and  standeth 
sweet-bloomed  from  out  the  tears  o'  her.' 

"  And  lo,  the  herb  did  flower  aneath  their 
very  eyes.  And  lo,  the  flowering  wert  fulled 
o'  dews-gleam,  and  'twer  the  sweet  o'  her  heart, 
yea,  the  dew  o'  heaven." 

Following  this  pretty  parable  someone 
spoke  of  a  newspaper  article  that  had  appeared 
that  day,  and  Patience  remarked: 

"  "Tis  a  gab  o'  fool.  Aye,  and  the  gab  o' 
fool  be  like  unto  a  spring  that  be  o'erfull  o' 
drops,  'tis  ne'er  atelling  when  it  breaketh  out 
its  bounds." 

With  this  sage  observation  she  dismissed  the 
"  fool "  as  unworthy  of  further  consideration, 
and  gave  this  poem: 

Do  I  to  love  the  morn, 

When  Earth  awakes,  and  streams 

Aglint  o'  sun's  first  gold, 

As  siren's  tresses  thred  them  through  the  fields ; 

When  sky-cup  gleameth  as  a  pearl; 

When  sky-hosts  wake,  and  leaf  bowers 

Wave  aheavied  with  the  dew? 


216  PATIENCE  WORTH 

Do  I  to  love  the  eve, 

When  white  the  moon  doth  show, 

And  frost's  sweet  sister,  young  night's  breath, 

Doth  stand  aglistened  'pon  the  blades; 

When  dark  the  shadow  deepeth, 

Like  to  the  days  agone  that  stand 

As  wraiths  adraped  o'  black 

Along  the  garden's  path ; 

When  sweet  the  nestlings  twitter 

'Neath  the  wing  of  soft  and  down 

That  hovereth  it  there  within 

The  shadows  deep  atop  the  tree? 

Do  I  to  love  the  mid-hours  deep — 
The  royal  color  o'  the  night  ? 
For  earth  doth  drape  her  purpled, 
And  jeweled  o'er  athin  this  hour. 

Do  I  to  love  these  hours,  then, 
As  the  loved  o'  me? 
Nay,  for  at  the  morn, 
Lo,  do  I  to  love  the  eve! 
And  at  the  eve, 
Lo,  do  I  to  love  the  morn  1 
And  at  the  morn  and  eve, 
'Tis  night  that  claimeth  me. 


CONVERSATIONS  217 

A  little  of  the  reasoning  of  Patience  upon 
Earth  questions  may  appropriately  come  in 
here.  The  Currans,  with  a  single  visitor,  had 
talked  at  luncheon  of  various  things,  begin- 
ning with  music  and  ending  with  capital  pun- 
ishment, the  latter  suggested  by  an  execution 
which  at  the  moment  was  attracting  national 
attention.  When  they  took  the  board,  after 
luncheon,  Patience  said: 

"  List  thee.  Earth  sendeth  up  much  notet 
Yea,  and  some  do  sound  them  at  wry  o'  melody, 
and  others  sing  them  true.  And  lo,  they  who 
sing  awry  shall  mingle  much  and  drown  in 
melody.  And  I  tell  thee,  o'er  and  above  shall 
sound  the  note  o'  me!  " 

And  then  she  gave  them  to  understand  that 
she  had  listened  to  their  discussion !  , 

'  Ye  spake  ye  of  eye  for  eye.  Yea,  and 
tooth  for  tooth.  Yea,  but  be  thy  brother's 
eye  not  the  ope  o'  thine,  then  'tis  a  measure 
less  the  full  thou  hast  at  taking  o'  the  eye  o' 
him.  Yea,  and  should  the  tooth  o'  him  put 
crave  for  carrion,  and  thine  for  sweets,  then 
how  doth  the  tooth  o'  him  serve  thee?  " 


218  PATIENCE  WORTH 

Here  the  sitters  asked:  "  How  about  a  life 
for  a  life,  Patience?  " 

Patience. — "  Ye  fill  thy  measure  full  o'  sands 
that  trickle  waste  at  each  and  every  putting. 
I  tell  thee  thou  hast  claimed  life;  aye,  and 
life  be  not  thine  or  yet  thy  brother's  for  the 
taking  or  giving.  Yea,  and  such  an  soul  hath 
purged  at  the  taking  or  giving,  and  rises  to 
smile  atethy  folly. 

"Aye,  and  more.  List!  The  earth's  bag- 
gage, hate,  and  might,  and  scorn,  fall  at  earth's 
leave,  a  dust  o'  naught,  like  the  dust  o'  thy 
body  crumbleth. 

'  Thou  canst  strip  the  body,  yea,  but  the 
soul  defieth  thee!" 

The  visitor  referred  to  in  the  preceding  talk 
is  a  frequent  guest  of  the  Currans,  and  is  one 
of  the  loved  ones  of  Patience.  This  visitor, 
who  is  a  widow,  remarked  one  evening  that 
Patience  was  deep  and  lived  in  a  deep 
place. 

"  Aye,"  said  Patience,  "  a  deeper  than  word. 
There  be  ahere  what  thou  knowest  abetter  far 


CONVERSATIONS  219 

than  word  o'  me  might  tell.  (This  seems  to 
refer  to  the  visitor's  husband.)  Ayea  thou 
hungereth,  and  bread  be  thine,  for  from  off 
lips  that  spaked  not  o'  the  land  o'  here  in  word 
o'  little  weight,  thou  hast  supped  of  love,  and 
know  the  path  that  be  atrod  by  him  shall  be 
atrod  even  so  by  thee,  e'en  tho'  thou  shouldst 
find  the  mountain's  height  and  pits  o'  depth 
past  Earth's  tung. 

"  Shouldst  thou  at  come  o'  here  to  hark  unto 
the  sound  of  this  voice,  thinkest  thou  that 
heights,  aye  or  depths,  might  keep  thee  from 
there?  And  even  so,  doth  not  the  one  thou 
seeketh  too,  haste  e'en  now  to  find  the  path 
and  waiteth? 

'  Then  thinkest  thou  this  journey  be  lone? 
Nay,  I  tell  thee,  thou  art  areach  e'en  past  the 
ye  o'  ye,  and  he  areach  ato.  Then  shall  the 
path's  ope  be  its  end  and  beginning.  In  love 
is  the  end  and  beginning  of  things. 

'  Yea,  yea,  yea,  the  earth  suppeth  o'  the 
word  o'  me,  and  e'en  at  the  supping  stoppeth 
and  speaketh  so.  What  that  one  not  o'  me 
doth  brew.  Thou  knowesf  this,-  dame.  Aye, 


PATIENCE  WORTH 

but  what  then?    And  why  doth  not  the  blood 
o'  me  speak  unto  me? 

'Tis  a  merry  I  be.  Lo,  have  I  not  fetched 
forth  unto  a  day  that  holdeth  little  o'  the  blood 
o'  me,  that  I  might  deal  alike  unto  my  brother 
and  bring  forth  word  that  be  ahungered  for 
aye,  and  they  speak  them  o'  her  ahere  and  wag 
and  hark  not?  Yea,  and  did  the  blood  o'  them 
spake  out  unto  their  very  ears  I  vow  me 
'twould  set  the  earth  ariot  o'  fearing.  Yea, 
man  loveth  blood  that  hath  not  flowed,  but 
sicketh  o'er  spilled  blood.  Yea,  then  weave." 

There  was  some  discussion  following  this,  to 
the  effect  that  whatever  explanations  might  be 
given  of  this  phenomenon,  many  would  believe 
in  Patience  Worth  as  an  independent  person- 
ality, which  brought  from  her  the  following 
discourse  which  may  well  conclude  these  con- 
versations : 

•» 

'  Yea,  the  tooth  o'  him  who  eateth  up  the 
flesh  I  did  to  cloak  me  athin,  shall  rot  and  he 
shalt  wither.  Aye,  and  the  word  o'  me  shalt 
stand.  Fires  but  bake  awell. 


CONVERSATIONS 

"  Sweet  hath  the  sound  of  the  word  o'  Him 
asounded  unto  the  ears  o'  Earth  that  hark 
not. 

"  Yea,  and  He  hath  beat  upon  the  busom  of 
Earth  and  sounded  out  a  loud  noise,  and  Earth 
barkened  not. 

"  And  He  hath  sung  thro'  the  mother's  songs 
o'  Earth,  and  Earth  barkened  not. 

"  Yea,  and  He  hath  sent  His  own  with  word, 
and  Earth  barkened  not. 

"  Then  'tis  Earth's  own  folly  that  batheth 
her. 

"  Yea,  and  Folly  cometh  astreaming  rib- 
bands, and  showering  color,  and  grinning  'pon 
his  way. 

"  Yea,  but  Folly  masketh  and  leadeth  Earth 
and  man  assuredly  unto  Follies  pit — self. 
And  self  is  blind. 

"  Then  whence  doth  Earth  to  turn  for  aid? 
For  Folly  followeth  not  the  blind,  and  the 
voice  of  him  who  f  alleth  unto  the  pit  of  Folly 
soundeth  out  a  loud  note.  Yea,  and  it  echoeth 
1  self.' 

"  And  lo,  the  Earth  filled  up  o'  self,  heark- 


222  PATIENCE  WORTH 

eth  not  unto  the  words  of  Him,  the  King  of 
Wisdom. 

*  Yea,  and  I  say  unto  thee,  though  them  o' 
Him  fall  pierced  and  rent  athin  the  flow  o' 
their  own  blood  thro'  the  self-song  o'  his 
brother,  he  doeth  this  for  Him. 

"  And  the  measuring  rod  shall  weight  out 
for  him  who  packeth  the  least  o'  self  athin 
him,  afull  o'  measure,  and  light  for  him  who 
packeth  heavy  o'  self. 

"Ayea,  and  more.  I  speak  me  o'  lands 
wherein  the  high  estate  be  self.  Yea,  yea,  yea, 
o'  thy  lands  do  I  to  speak.  Woe  unto  him 
who  feareth  that  might  shall  slay!  Self  may 
wield  a  mighty  blow,  but  it  slayeth  never. 

"  'Tis  as  the  dame  who  watcheth  o'er  her 
brood,  and  lo,  this  one  hath  sorry,  and  that  one 
hath  sorry.  And  she  flitteth  here  and  yon, 
and  lo,  afore  she  hath  fetched  out  the  herbs, 
they  sleep  them  peaceful.  So  shall  it  be  at 
this  time.  The  herbs  shall  be  fetched  forth 
but  lo,  the  lands  shall  sleep  them  peaceful. 

"  Yea,  for  Folly  leadeth,  and  Wisdom  war- 
rettt  Folly." 


RELIGION 

"  Teach  me  that  I  be  Ye." 

AND  now  we  well  may  ask:  What  is  the  pur- 
pose of  all  this?  Here  we  appear  to  have  an 
invisible  intelligence,  speaking  an  obsolete 
language,  producing  volumes  of  poetry  con- 
taining many  evidences  of  profound  wisdom. 
So  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  find  out,  no  such 
phenomenon  has  occurred  before  since  the 
world  began.  Do  not  misunderstand  that  asser- 
tion. There  is  nothing  extraordinary  in  the 
manner  of  its  coming,  as  I  have  said  before. 
The  publications  of  the  Society  for  Psychical 
Research  are  filled  with  examples  of  communi- 
cations received  in  the  same  or  a  similar  way. 
The  fact  that  makes  this  phenomenon  stand 
out,  that  altogether  isolates  it  from  everything 
else  of  an  occult  nature,  is  the  character  and 
quality  of  its  literature.  Literature  is  some- 

223 


PATIENCE  WORTH 

thing  tangible,  something  that  one  can  lay 
hands  on,  so  to  speak.  It  is  in  a  sense  physical ; 
it  can  be  seen  with  the  eyes.  And  this  litera- 
ture is  the  physical  evidence  which  Patience 
Worth  presents  of  herself  as  a  separate  and 
distinct  personality. 

But  why  is  it  contributed?  Is  there  in  it 
any  intimation  or  assertion  of  a  definite  pur- 
pose? 

If  we  may  assume  that  Patience  is  what  she 
seems  to  be — a  voice  from  another  world,  then 
indeed  we  may  discern  a  purpose.  She  has  a 
message  to  deliver,  and  she  gives  the  impres- 
sion that  she  is^a  messenger. 

"  Do  eat  that  which  I  offer  thee,"  she  says. 
"  'Tis  o'  Him.  I  but  bear  the  pack  apacked 
for  the  carry  o'  me  by  Him." 

Constantly  she  speaks  of  herself  as  bearing 
food  or  drink  in  her  words.  "  I  bid  thee  eat," 
she  said  to  one,  <£  and  rest  ye,  and  eat  amore, 
for  'tis  the  wish  o'  me  that  ye  be  filled."  The 
seed,  the  loaf,  the  cup,  are  frequently  used 
symbolically  when  referring  to  her  communi- 
cations. 


RELIGION 

"  There  be  a  man  who  buyeth  grain  and  he 
telleth  his  neighbor  and  his  neighbor's  neigh- 
bor, and  lo,  they  come  asacked  and  clamor  for 
the  grain.  And  what  think  ye?  Some  do 
make  price,  and  yet  others  bring  naught.  But 
I  be  atelling  ye,  'tis  not  a  price  I  beg.  Nay, 
'tis  that  ye  drink  my  cup." 

"Tis  truth  o'  earth  that  'tis  the  seed 
aplanted  deep  that  doth  cause  the  harvester  for 
to  watch.  For  lo,  doth  he  to  hold  the  seed 
athin  (within)  his  hand,  'tis  but  a  seed.  And 
aplanted  he  doth  watch  him  in  wondering. 
Verily  do  I  say,  'tis  so  with  me.  I  be  aplanted 
deep ;  do  thee  then  to  watch." 

And  with  greater  significance  she  has  ex- 
claimed: "  Morn  hath  broke,  and  ye  be  the  first 
to  see  her  light.  Look  ye  wide-eyed  at  His 
workings.  He  hath  offered  ye  a  cup." 

It  is  thus  she  announces  herself  to  be  a 
herald  of  a  new  day,  a  bearer  of  tidings 
divinely  commissioned. 

What,  then,  is  her  message?  For  answer 
it  may  be  said  that  it  is  at  once  a  revelation,  a 


PATIENCE  WORTH 

religion  and  a  promise.  Whatever  we  may 
think  of  the  nature  of  this  phenomenon,  Pa- 
tience herself  is  a  revelation,  and  there  are 
many  revelations  in  her  words.  The  religion 
she  presents  is  not  a  new  one.  It  is  as  old 
as  that  given  to  the  world  nineteen  centuries 
ago;  for  fundamentally  it  is  the  same.  It  is 
that  religion,  stripped  of  all  the  doctrines  and 
creeds  and  ceremonials  and  observances  that 
have  grown  up  about  it  in  all  the  ages  since 
His  coming,  and  paring  it  down  to  the  point 
where  it  can  be  expressed  by  the  one  word — 
Love.  Love,  going  out  to  fellow  man,  to  all 
nature  and  overflowing  toward  God. 

In  the  consideration  of  this  religion  let  us 
begin  at  the  beginning,  at  the  ground,  so  to 
speak,  with  this  expression  of  love  for  the  love- 
less: 

Ah,  could  I  love  thee, 

Thou,  the  loveless  o'  the  earth, 

And  pry  aneath  the  crannies 

Yet  untouched  by  mortal  hand 

To  send  therein  this  love  o'  mine — 

Thou  creeping  mite,  and  winged  speck, 


RELIGION 

And  whirled  waters  o'  the  mid  o*  sea 

Where  no  man  seeth  thee? 

And  could  I  love  thee,  the  days 

Unsunned  and  laden  with  hate  o'  sorrying? 

Ah,  could  I  love  thee, 

Thou  who  beareth  blight; 

And  thou  the  fruit  bescorched 

And  shrivelling,  to  fall  unheeded 

'Neath  thy  mother-stalk? 


Ah,  could  I  love  thee,  love  thee? 

Aye,  for  Him  who  loveth  thee, 

And  blightest  but  through  loving; 

Like  to  him  who  bendeth  low  the  forest's  king 

To  fashion  out  a  mast. 

Love  for  everything  is  the  essence  of  her 
thought  and  of  her  song.  And  as  she  thus 
sings  for  the  loveless,  so  she  sings  for  the 
wearied  ones  and  the  failures  of  the  earth: 

I'd  sing. 

Wearied  word  adropped  by  weary  ones, 

And  broked  mold  afashioned  out  by  wearied  hands; 

A  f  alter-song  sung  through  tears  o'  wearied  one  ; 

A  fancied  put  o'  earth's  fair  scene 

Af  alien  at  awry  o'  weariness.    Love's  task 


228  PATIENCE  WORTH 

Unfinished,  aye,  o'ertaken  by  sore  weariness — 
O'  thee  I'd  sing. 

Aye,  and  put  me  such  an  songed-note 
That  earth,  aye,  and  heaven,  should  hear; 
And  thou,  aye  all  o'  ye,  the  soul-songs 
O'  my  brothers,  be  afinished, 
At  the  closing  o'  my  song. 

Aye,  and  wearied,  aye  and  wearied,  I'd  sing. 
I'd  sing  for  them,  the  loved  o'  Him, 
And  brothers  o'  thee  and  me.    Amen. 

This  is  the  prelude  and  now  comes  the  song: 

I  choose  o'  the  spill 

O'  love  and  word  and  work, 

The  waste  o'  earth,  to  build. 

Ye  hark  unto  the  sages, 
And  oft  a  way-singer's  song 
Hath  laden  o'erfull  o'  truth, 
And  wasteth  'pon  the  air, 
And  f alleth  not  unto  thine  ear. 

Think  ye  He  scattereth  whither 
E'en  such  an  grain?    Nay. 
And  do  ye  seek  o'  spill 


RELIGION  229 

And  put  unto  thy  song, 
'Twill  fill  its  emptiness. 

Ye  seek  to  sing  but  o'  thy  song, 
And  'tis  an  empty  strain.    'Tis  need 
O'  love's  spill  for  to  fill. 

The  spill  of  earth,  the  love  that  goes  un- 
noticed and  unappreciated,  the  words  that  are 
unheard  or  unheeded,  the  work  that  seems  ,to 
be  for  naught — none  of  these  is  waste.  A  song 
it  is  for  the  wearied  ones,  the  heart-sick  and 
discouraged,  "  the  loved  of  Him  and  brothers 
of  thee  and  me." 

And  yet  she  calls  them  waste  but  to  show 
that  they  are  not.  '  The  waste  of  earth,"  she 
says,  "  doth  build  the  Heaven,"  and  this  is  the 
theme  of  much  of  her  song. 

Earth  hath  filled  it  up  o'  waste  and  waste. 

The  sea's  fair  breast,  that  heaveth  as  a  mother's, 

Beareth  waste  o'  wrecks  and  wind-blown  waste. 

The  day  doth  hold  o'  waste. 
The  smiles  that  die,  that  long  to  break, 
The  woes  that  burden  them  already  broke, 

'Tis  waste,  ah  yea,  'tis  waste. 


230  PATIENCE  WORTH 

And  yet,  and  yet,  at  some  fair  day, 
E'en  as  the  singing  thou  dost  note 
Doth  bound  from  yonder  hill's  side  green 
As  echo,  yea,  the  ghost  o'  thy  voice ; 
So  shall  all  o'  this  to  sound  aback 
Unto  the  day. 
Of  waste,  of  waste,  is  heaven  builded  up. 

It  is  to  the  waste  of  earth  that  she  speaks  in 
this  message  of  love  and  sympathy: 

Ah,  emptied  heart  1    The  weary  o'  the  path ! 

How  would  I  to  fill  ye  up  o'  love! 

I'd  tear  this  lute,  that  it  might  whirr 

A  song  that  soothed  thy  lone,  awearied  path. 

I'd  steal  the  sun's  pale  gold, 

And  e'en  the  silvered  even's  ray, 

To  treasure  them  within  this  song 

That  it  be  rich  for  thee. 

From  out  the  wastes  o'  earth  I'd  seek 

And  catch  the  woe-tears  shed, 

That  I  might  drink  them  from  the  cup 

And  fill  it  up  with  loving. 

From  out  the  hearts  afulled  o'  love 

Would  I  to  steal  the  o'er-drip 

And  pack  the  emptied  hearts  of  earth. 

The  bread  o'  love  would  I  to  cast 


RELIGION 

Unto  thy  bywayed  path,  and  pluck  me 
From  the  thorned  bush  that  traileth  o'er 
The  stepping-place,  the  thorn,  that  brothers 
O'  the  flesh  o'  me  might  step  'pon  path  acleared. 
Yea,  I'd  coax  the  songsters  o'  the  earth 
To  carol  thee  upon  thy  ways, 
And  fill  ye  up  o'  love  and  love  and  love. 

And  a  message  of  cheer  and  encouragement 
she  gives  to  those  who  sorrow,  in  this: 

'  The  web  o'  sorrow  weaveth  'bout  the  days 
o'  earth,  and  'tis  but  Folly  who  plyeth  o'  the 
bobbin.  I  tell  thee  more,  the  bobbins  stick  and 
threads  o'  day- weave  go  awry.  But  list  ye; 
'tis  he  who  windeth  o'  his  web  'pon  smiles  and 
shuttleth  'twixt  smiles  and  woe  who  weaveth 
o'  a  day  afull  and  pleantious.  And  sorrow 
then  wilt  rift  and  show  a  light  athrough." 

Smiles  amid  sorrows.  He  who  windeth  of 
his  web  upon  smiles  not  only  rifts  his  own  woes 
but  those  of  others,  as  she  expresses  it  in  this 
verse : 

The  smile  thou  cast  today  that  passed 
Unheeded  by  the  world;  the  handclasp 
Of  a  friend,  the  touch  of  baby  palms 


PATIENCE  WORTH 

Upon  its  mother's  breast — 

Whither  have  they  flown  along  the  dreary  way? 

Mayhap  thy  smile 

Hath  fallen  upon  a  daisy's  golden  head, 
To  shine  upon  some  weary  traveler 
Along  the  dusty  road,  and  cause 
A  softening  of  the  hard,  hard  way. 
Perchance  the  handclasp  strengthened  wavering  love 
And  lodged  thee  in  thy  friend's  regard. 
And  where  the  dimpled  hands  caress, 
Will  not  a  well  of  love  spring  forth? 
Who  knows,  but  who  will  tell 
The  hiding  of  these  fleeting  gifts  I 

And  she  gives  measure  to  the  same  thought 
in  this: 

Waft  ye  Ihrough  the  world  sunlight ; 
Throw  ye  to  the  sparrows  grain 
That  runneth  o'er  the  heaping  measure. 
Scatter  flower  petals,  like  the  wings 
Of  fluttering  butterflies,  to  streak 
The  dove-gray  day  with  daisy  gold, 
And  turn  the  silver  mist  to  fleece  of  gold. 
Hath  the  king  a  noble  who  is  such 
An  wonder-worker?    Or  hath  his  jester 
Such  a  pack  of  tricks  as  thine? 


RELIGION  233 

Both  of  these  last  have  to  do  with  the  hands 
and  with  the  use  of  the  hands  in  the  expression 
of  love  for  others,  but  in  the  following  poem 
Patience  pays  a  tender  and  yet  somewhat  mys- 
tical tribute  to  the  hands  themselves,  empty 
hands  filled  with  the  gifts  of  Him,  the  power 
to  build  and  weave  and  soothe : 

Hands.     Hands.     The  hands  o'  Earth; 
Abusied  at  fashioning,  Aye, 
And  put  o'  this,  aye,  and  that. 
Hands.    Hands  upturned  at  empty. 
Hands.    Hands  untooled,  aye,  but  builders 
0'  the  soothe  o'  Earth. 

Hands.    Hands  aspread,  aye,  and  sending  forth 

That  which  they  do  hold — the  emptiness. 

Aye,   at   empty   they  be,  afulled  o'   the   give   o' 

Him. 

At  put  at  up,  aye,  and  down,  'tis  at  weave 
0'  cloth  o'  Him  they  be. 

Hands.    Hands  afulled  o'  work  o'  Him ; 
Aye,  and  ever  at  a  spread  o'  doing  in  His  name. 
Aye,  and  at  put  o'  weave 
For  naught  but  loving. 


284  PATIENCE  WORTH 

There  are  no  doubt  such  hands  on  earth, 
many  of  them  "  ever  at  a  spread  of  doing  in 
His  name,"  but  not  often  have  their  work  and 
their  mission  been  so  beautifully  and  so  fit- 
tingly expressed  as  in  this  strange  verse  which, 
to  me  at  least,  grows  in  wonder  at  every  read- 
ing. And  this  not  so  much  because  of  the 
quaintness  of  the  words  and  the  singularity 
of  the  construction,  as  for  the  thought.  This, 
however,  is  characteristic  of  all  of  her  work. 
There  is  always  more  in  it  than  appears  upon 
the  surface.  And  yet  when  one  analyzes  it, 
one  finds  that  whatever  may  be  the  nature  or 
the  subject  of  the  composition,  in  nearly  every 
instance  love  is  the  inspiration. 

The  love  that  she  expresses  is  universal.  It 
goes  out  to  nature  in  all  its  forms,  animate  and 
inanimate,  lovely  and  unlovely.  It  is  mani- 
fested in  all  her  references  to  humanity,  from 
the  infant  to  doddering  age;  and  her  composi- 
tions are  filled  with  appeals  for  the  applica- 
tion of  love  to  the  relations  between  man  and 
man.  But  it  is  when  she  sings  of  God  that  she 
expresses  love  with  the  most  tender  and  pas- 


RELIGION  235 

sionate  fervency — His  love  for  man,  her  love 
for  Him.  "  For  He  knoweth  no  beginning,  no 
ending  to  loving,"  she  says,  "  and  loveth  thee 
and  me  and  me  and  thee  ever  and  afore  ever." 
"  Sighing  but  bringeth  up  heart's  weary;  tears 
but  wash  the  days  acleansed;  hands  abusied 
for  them  not  thine  do  work  for  Him;  prayers 
that  fall  'pon  but  the  air  and  naught,  ye  deem, 
sing  straight  unto  Him.  Close,  close  doth  He 
to  cradle  His  own  to  Him."  She  gives  poetic 
expression  to  this  divine  love  in  the  song  which 
follows : 

Brother,  weary  o'  the  plod, 

Art  sorried  sore  o'  waiting? 

Brother,  bowed  aneath  the  pack  o'  Earth, 

Art  seeking  o'  the  path 

That  leadest  thee  unto  new  fields 

O5  green,  and  breeze-kissed  airs? 

Art  bowed  and  bent  o'  weight  o'  sorry? 

Art  weary,  weary,  sore? 

Then  come  and  hark  unto  this  song  o'  Him. 

Hast  thou  atrodden  *pon  the  Earth, 
And  worn  the  paths  o'  folly 


PATIENCE  WORTH 

Till  thou  art  foot-sore? 

And  hast  the  day  grinned  back  to  thee, 

A  folly-mask  adown  thy  path 

That  layeth  far  behind  thee? 

Thy  heart,  my  brother,  hast  thou  then 

Alost  it  'pon  the  path? 

And  filled  thee  up  o'  word  and  tung 

O'  follysingers  long  the  way? 

Ah,  weary  me,  ah,  weary  me  1 
Come  thou  unto  this  breast. 
For  though  thou  hast  suffered  o'  the  Earth, 
And  though  thy  robe  be  stained 
O'  travel  o'er  the  stoney  way, 
And  though  thy  lips  deny  thy  heart, 
Come  thou  unto  this  breast, 
The  breast  o'  Him. 
For  He  knoweth  not  the  stain. 
Aye,  and  the  land  o'  Him  doth  know 
No  stranger  'mid  its  hosts. 
Ayea,  and  though  thou  comest  mute, 
This  silence  speaketh  then  to  Him, 
And  He  doth  hold  Him  ope  His  arms. 

So  come  thou  brother,  weary  one, 
To  Him,  for  'tis  but  Earth  and  men 
Who  ask  thee  WHY. 


RELIGION  237 

She  pours  out  her  love  for  God  in  many; 
verses  of  praise  and  prayer. 

Bird  skimming  to  the  south, 

Bear  thou  my  song, 
Sand  slipping  to  the  wave's  embrace, 

Do  thou  but  bear  it  too ! 
And,  shifting  tide,  take  thou 

Unto  thy  varied  paths 
The  voicing  of  my  soul! 

I'd  build  me  such  an  endless 

Chant  to  sing  of  Him 
That  days  to  follow  days 

Would  be  but  builded  chord 
Of  this  my  lay. 

Still  more  ardently  does  she  express  her  love 
in  these  lines : 

Spring,  thou  art  but  His  smile 

Of  happiness  in  me,  and  sullen  days 

Of  weariness  shall  fall  when  Spring  is  born 

In  winds  of  March  and  rains  of  April's  tears. 

Methinks  'tis  weariness  of  His  that  I, 

His  loved,  should  tarry  o'er  the  task 


238  PATIENCE  WORTH 

And  leave  life's  golden  sheaves  unbound. 

And,  Night,  thou  too  art  mine,  of  Him. 

Thy  dim  and  veiled  stars  are  but  the  eyes 

Of  Him  that  through  the  "curtained  mystery 

Watch  on  and  sever  dark  from  me. 

And,  Love,  thou  too  art  His, 

His  words  of  wooing  to  my  soul. 

Should  I,  then,  crush  thee  in  embrace, 

And  bruise  thee  with  my  kiss, 

And  drink  thy  soul  through  mine? 

What,  then !    'Tis  He,  'tis  He,  my  love, 

That  gave  me  thee,  and  while  my  love  is  thine, 

What  woijder  is  it  causeth  here 

This  heart  of  mine  to  stifle  so 

And  seek  expression  in  a  prayer  of  thanks? 

With  equal  fervency  of  devotion  and  grati- 
tude she  sings  this  tribute  to  the  day: 

Ah,  what  a  day  He  hath  made,  He  hath  made ! 

It  flasheth  abright  and  asweet,  and  asweet. 

It  showeth  His  love  and  His  smile,  yea,  His  smile. 

The  hills  stand  abrown,  aye  astand  brown, 
And  peaked  as  a  monk  in  his  cowl,  aye,  his  cowl  I 
The  grass  it  hath  seared,  aye,  hath  seared 
And  scenteth  asweet,  yea,  asweet. 


RELIGION  239 

Ayonder  a  swallow  doth  whirl,  aye,  doth  whirl, 
And  skim  mid  the  grey  o'  the  blue, 

Aye,  the  grey  o*  the  blue. 
The  young  wave  doth  lap  'pon  the  sands, 

Yea,  lap  soft  and  soft  'pon  the  sands. 
The  field's  maid  doth  seek,  yea,  doth  seek, 
And  send  out  her  song  to  the  day, 

Yea,  send  out  her  song  to  the  day. 

My  heart  it  is  full,  yea,  'tis  full, 

For  the  love  of  Him  batheth  the  day, 

Yea,  the  love  of  Him  batheth  the  day. 

Ah,  what  a  day  He  hath  made, 

Yea,  He  hath  made  it  for  me! 

Her  prayers  are  not  appeals  for  aid;  they 
are  not  begging  petitions.  They  are  outpour- 
ings of  love  and  trust  and  gratitude. 

To  an  old  couple,  friends  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Curran,  who  passed  a  round-eyed  evening  with 
Patience,  she  said: 

Keep  ye  within  thy  heart  a  song 
And  murmur  thou  this  prayer: 

"  My  God,  am  I  then  afraid 
Of  heights  or  depths? 


240  PATIENCE  WORTH 

And  doth  this  dark  benumb  my  quaking  limbs? 

And  do  I  stop  my  song  in  fear 

Lest  Thee  do  then  forsake  me? 

Nay,  for  I  do  love  Thee  so, 

I  fain  would  choose  a  song 

Built  from  my  chosen  tung, 

And  though  it  be  but  chattering 

Of  a  soul  bereft  of  reasoning, 

I  know  Thou  would'st  love  it  as  Thine  own, 

For  I  do  love  Thee  so ! " 

This  was  not  given  for  another,  but  is  her 
own  cry: 

I  beseech  Thee,  Lord,  for  naught ! 
But  cry  aloud  unto  the  sunlight 
Who  bathes  the  earth  in  gold 
And  boldly  breaketh  into  crannies 
Yet  unseen  by  man : 
Flash  thou  in  flaming  sheen ! 
Mine  own  song  of  love  doth  falter 
And  my  throat,  it  is  afail! 

And  thou,  the  greening  shrub  along  the  way, 

And  earth  at  bud-season, 

Do  thou  then  spurt  thy  shoots 

And  pierce  the  air  with  loving! 


RELIGION 

And  age-wabbled  brother  — 

I  do  love  thee  for  thy  spending, 

And  I  do  gaze  in  loving  at  thy  face, 

Whereon  I  find  His  peace, 

And  trace  the  withered  cheek 

For  record  of  His  love. 

Around  thy  lips  doth  hang 

The  child-smile  of  a  trusting  heart; 

And  world  hath'  vanished 

From  thine  eyes,  bedimmed 

To  gard  thee  at  awakening. 

Thou,  too,  art  of  my  song  of  love. 

I  beseech  Thee,  Lord,  for  naught. 
These  hands  are  Thine  for  loving, 
And  this  heart,  already  Thine, 
Why  offer  it? 
I  beseech  Thee,  Lord,  for  naught. 


This  one  does  ask  for  something,  but  only  to 
know  Him: 

Teach  me,  O  God, 

To  say,  "  'Tis  not  enough." 

Aye,  teach  me,  0  Brother, 

To  sing,  and  though  the  weight 

Be  past  this  strength, 


PATIENCE  WORTH 

Teach  me,  O  God,  to  say, 
"  'Tis  not  enough — to  pay  I " 

Teach  me,  O  God,  for  I  be  weak. 

Teach  me  to  learn 

Of  strength  from  Thee. 

Teach  me,  O  God,  to  trust,  and  do. 
Teach  me,  O  God,  no  word  to  pray. 
Teach  me,  O  God,  the  heart  Thou  gavest  me. 
Teach  me,  O  God,  to  read  thereon. 
Teach  me,  O  God,  to  waste  not  word. 
Teach  me  that  I  be  Ye ! 


That  last  line  presents  the  most  impressive 

principle  of  the  religion  she  expresses,  and 

which,  we  might  almost  say,  she  embodies. 

'  Who  are  you? "  she  was  once  asked  abruptly. 

"I  be  Him,"  she  replied;  "alike  to  thee. 
Ye  be  o'  Him." 

At  another  time  she  said: 

'*  I  be  all  that  hath  been,  and  all  that  is,  all 
that  shalt  be,  for  that  be  He." 

Taken  alone  this  would  seem  to  be  a  declara- 
tion that  she  herself  was  God,  but  when  it  is 


RELIGION  £43 

read  in  connection  with  the  previous  affirma- 
tion it  is  readily  understood. 

*  Thou  art  of  Him,"  she  said  again,  "  aye, 
and  I  be  of  Him,  and  ye  be  of  Him,  and  He 
be  all  and  of  all." 

In  this  prayer,  where  she  says  "  Teach  me, 
O  God,  no  word  to  pray,"  it  is  evident  from 
her  other  prayers  that  she  uses  the  word  pray 
in  the  sense  of  "  to  beg."  Her  prayers  are 
merely  expressions  of  love  and  gratitude. 

She  herself  interprets  the  line,  "  Teach  me, 
O  God,  to  waste  not  word,"  in  this  verse: 

Speak  ye  a  true  tongue, 

Or  waste  ye  with  words  the  Soul's  song? 

A  damning  evidence  is  with  wasted  words ; 

For  need  I  prate  to  yonder  star 

When  hunger  fills  the  world  wherein  I  dwell? 

Cast  I  a  glance  so  precious  as  His 

Which  wakes  at  every  dawn? 

Speak  I  a  tongue  one  half  so  true 

As  sighing  winds  who  sing  amid 

Aeolian  harps  strung  with  siren  tress? 

For  lo,  the  sea  murmureth  a  thousand  tones, 

Wrung  from  its  world  within, 


PATIENCE  WORTH 

But  telleth  only  of  Him, 
And  so  His  silence  keeps. 


In  the  order  in  which  we  have  chosen  to  pre- 
sent these  poems,  they  are  more  and  more 
mystical  as  we  go  on.  We  trust,  then,  that  the 
reader  meeting  them  for  the  first  time  will  feel 
no  impertinence  in  increasing  attempts  at 
elucidation  from  one  who  has  read  them  often 
and  pondered  them  much. 

There  is  another  and  a  very  interesting 
phase  of  these  communications  in  the  place 
Christ  holds  in  them.  Patience's  attitude  to- 
ward the  Savior  is  one  of  deep  and  loving 
reverence. 

"  Didst  thou  then,"  she  says,  "  with  those 
drops  so  worth,  buy  the  throbbing  at  thy  mem- 
ory set  aflutter?  And  is  this  love  of  mine  so 
freely  thine  by  that  same  purchase,  or  do  I 
love  thee  for  thy  love  of  me?  And  do  I,  then, 
my  father's  tilling  for  love  of  Him,  like  thee 
to  shed  my  blood  and  tears  for  reapers  in  an 
age  to  come,  because  He  wills  it  so?  God 
grant  'tis  so!" 


RELIGION  245 

Nor  does  she  hesitate  to  assert  His  divinity 
with  definiteness.  "  Think  ye,"  she  cries, 
"  that  He  who  doth  send  the  earth  aspin 
athrough  the  blue  depth  o'  Heaven,  be  not  a 
wonder-god  who  springeth  up  where'er  He 
doth  set  a  wish!  Yea,  then  doth  He  to  spring 
from  out  the  dust  a  lily;  so  also  doth  He  to 
breathe  athin  (within)  the  flesh,  and  come  unto 
the  earth,  born  from  out  flesh  athout  the  touch 
o'  man.  'Tis  so,  and  from  off  the  lute  o'  me 
hath  song  aflowed  that  be  asweeted  o'  the 
blood  o'  Him  that  shed  for  thee  and  me." 

And  she  puts  the  same  assertion  of  His 
divine  birth  into  this  tribute  to  the  Virgin: 

Mary,  mother,  thou  art  the  Spring 

That  flowereth,  though  nay  man  aplanteth  thee. 

Mary,  mother,  the  song  of  thee 

That  lulled  His  dreams  to  come, 

Sing  them  athrough  the  earth  and  bring 

The  hope  of  rest  unto  the  day. 

Mary,  mother,  from  out  the  side  of  Him 

That  thou  didst  bear,  aflowed  the  crimson  tide 

That  doth  to  stain  e'en  unto  this  day — 


246  PATIENCE  WORTH 

i 

The  tide  of  blood  that  ebbed  the  man 
From  out  the  flesh  and  left  the  God  to  be. 

Mary,  mother,  wilt  thou  then  leave  me  catch 

These  drops,  that  I  do  offer  them  as  drink 

Unto  the  brothers  of  the  flesh  of  me  of  earth? 

Mary,  mother  of  the  earth's  loved! 

Mary,  bearer  of  the  God ! 

Mary,  that  I  might  call  thee  of  a  name  befitting 

thee, 

I  seek,  I  seek,  I  seek,  and  none 
Doth  offer  it  to  me  save  this: 
Mother !  Mother !  Mother  of  the  Him ; 
The  flesh  that  died  for  me. 


THE  IDEAS  ON  IMMORTALITY 

"Earth!  Earth,  the  mother  of  us  all!  Aye,  the 
mother  of  us  all !  How  loth,  how  loth,  like  to  a  child 
we  be,  to  leave  and  seek  'mid  dark ! " — PATIENCE 
WOETH. 

IF  the  personality  of  Patience  Worth  and 
the  nature  and  quality  of  her  literary  produc- 
tions are  worthy  of  consideration  as  evidences 
of  the  truth  of  her  claim  to  a  spiritual  exist- 
ence, then  in  the  sufficiency  of  the  proof  may 
be  found  an  answer  to  the  world-old  question: 
Is  there  a  life  after  death?  To  what  extent  the 
facts  that  have  been  presented  in  this  narrative 
may  be  accepted  as  proof,  is  for  the  reader  to 
determine.  But  Patience  has  not  been  content 
to  reveal  a  strange  personality  and  a  unique 
literature;  she  has  had  much  to  say  upon  this 
question  of  immortality.  There  is  more  or  less 
spiritual  significance  in  nearly  all  of  her  poetry 

247 


248  PATIENCE  WORTH 

and  in  some  of  her  prose,  and  while  her  refer- 
ences to  the  after  life  are  usually  veiled  under 
figures  of  speech,  they  nevertheless  give  assur- 
ances of  its  existence.  She  makes  it  clear,  how- 
ever, that  she  is  not  permitted  to  reveal  the 
nature  of  that  life  beyond  the  veil,  but  she  goes 
as  far  apparently  as  she  dares,  in  the  repeated 
assertion,  through  metaphor  and  illustration, 
of  its  reality. 

"  My  days,"  she  cries,  "  I  have  scattered  like 
autumn  leaves,  whirled  by  raging  winds,  and 
they  have  fallen  in  various  crannies  'long  the 
way.  Blown  to  rest  are  the  sunny  spring- 
kissed  mornings  of  my  youth,  and  with  many 
a  sigh  did  I  blow  the  sobbing  eves  that 
melted  into  tear-washed  night.  Blow  on,  thou 
zephyr  of  this  life,  and  let  me  throw  the  value 
of  each  day  to  thee.  Blow,  and  spend  thyself, 
till,  tired,  thou  wilt  croon  thyself  to  sleep. 
Perchance  this  casting  of  my  day  may  cease, 
and  thou  wilt  turn  anew  unto  thy  blowing  and 
reap  the  casting  of  the  world. 

"What  then  is  a  sigh?  Ah,  man  may 
breathe  a  sorrow.  Doth  then  the  dumbness  of 


THE  IDEAS  ON  IMMORTALITY      249 

his  brother  bar  his  sighing?  Nay — and  hark! 
The  sea  doth  sigh,  and  yonder  starry  jasmine 
stirreth  with  a  tremorous  sigh;  and  morning's 
birth  is  greeted  with  the  sighing  of  the  world. 
For  what?  Ah,  for  that  coming  that  shall  ful- 
fill the  promise,  and  change  the  sighing  to  a 
singing,  and  loose  the  tongue  of  him  whom 
God  doth  know  and,  fearful  lest  he  tell  His 
hidden  mysteries,  hath  locked  his  lips." 

And  again  she  asks:  "  Needest  thou  see  what 
God  himself  sealeth  thine  eyes  to  make  thee 
know? "  Meaning,  undoubtedly,  that  only 
through  the  process  of  death  can  the  soul  be 
brought  to  an  understanding  of  that  other  life ; 
and  she  declares  that  even  if  we  were  shown, 
we  could  not  comprehend.  "  If  thou  should'st 
see  His  face  on  morrow's  break,"  she  says, 
c  'twould  but  start  a  wagging,"  a  discussion. 
And  she  continues:  "Ah,  ope  the  tabernacle, 
but  look  thou  not  on  high,  for  when  the  filmy 
veil  shall  fade  away — ah,  could'st  thou  but 
know  that  He  who  waits  hath  looked,  aye 
looked,  on  thee,  and  thou  hast  looked  on  Him 
since  time  began  I"  This  enigmatical  utter- 


250  PATIENCE  WORTH 

ance  is  in  itself  sufficient  to  start  a  "  wagging," 
but  Patience  evidently  feels  that  the  solution 
is  beyond  our  powers:  for  she  repeatedly  as- 
serts that  the  key  to  the  mystery  is  within  our 
reach  if  we  could  but  grasp  it.  "  Fleet  as  down 
blown  from  its  moorings,  seeking  the  linnet 
who  dropped  her  seed,  so  drift  ye,"  she  says, 
"  ever  seeking,  when  at  the  root  still  rests  the 
seed  pod."  And  again:  "  Knowest  thou  that 
fair  land  to  which  the  traveler  is  loath  to  go, 
but  loath,  so  loath,  to  leave?  Ah,  the  mystery 
of  the  snail's  shell  is  far  deeper  than  this." 

Yet  she  tells  us  again  and  again  that  Nature 
itself  is  the  proof  of  another  life.  "  Why  live," 
she  asks,  "  the  paltry  span  of  years  allotted 
thee,  in  desolation,  while  all  about  thee  are  His 
promises?  Thou  art,  indeed,  like  a  withered 
hand  that  holds  a  new-blown  rose."  The  truth, 
she  says,  is  not  to  be  found  in  "  books  of  wordy 
filling,"  but  in  the  infant's  smile  and  in  the 
myriad  creations  and  resurrections  that  are 
ever  within  our  cognizance.  "  I  pipe  of  learn- 
ing," she  cries,  ">and  fall  silent  before  the  fool 
who  singeth  his  folly  lay." 


THE  IDEAS  ON  IMMORTALITY 

The  natural  evidences  she  points  out  are 
visible  to  all  and  within  the  comprehension  of 
the  feeblest  intelligence,  but  he  whose  vision  is 
obscured  by  book  knowledge  "  is  like  unto  the 
monk  who  prays  within  his  cell,  unheedful  of 
the  timid  sunbeam  who  would  light  the  page 
his  wisdom  so  befogs."  "  Ah!  "  she  exclaims, 
"  the  labor  set  thee  to  unlearn  thine  inborn 
fancies!"  meaning,  apparently,  the  suppres- 
sion of  the  intuitions  of  immortality;  and  in  the 
same  line  of  thought  she  cries :  "  Am  I  then 
drunkened  on  the  chaff  of  knowledge  supped 
by  mine  elderborn?  Nay,  my  forefolk  drank 
not  truth,  but  sent  through  my  veins  acoursing, 
chaff,  chaff,  naught  by  chaff."  Plainly,  then, 
Patience  has  no  great  respect  for  learning,  and 
it  is  the  book  of  Nature  rather  than  the  book 
of  words  that  she  would  have  us  read. 

I  made  a  song  from  the  dead  notes  of  His  birds, 
And  wove  a  wreath  of  withered  lily  buds, 
And  gathered  daisies  that  the  sun  had  scorched, 
And  plucked  a  rose  the  riotous  wind  had  torn, 
And  stolen  clover  flowers,  down-trodden  by  the  kine, 
And  fashioned  into  ropes  and  tied  with  yellow  reed, 


PATIENCE  WORTH 

An  offering  unto  Him:  and  lo,  the  dust 
Of  crumbling  blossoms  fell  to  bloom  again, 
And  smiled  like  sickened  children, 
Wistfully,  but  strong  of  faith  that  mother-stalk 
Would  send  fresh  blossoms  in  the  spring. 

So  it  is  she  sings,  presenting  the  symbolisms 
of  nature  to  illustrate  the  renewal  or  the  con- 
tinuance of  life ;  or  again,  she  likens  life  to  the 
seasons  (as  did  Shakespeare  and  Keats,  and 
many  another  poet)  in  this  manner: 

My  youth  is  promising  as  spring, 

And  verdant  as  young  weeds, 

Whose  very  impudence  taketh  them 

Where  bloom  the  garden's  treasures. 

My  midlife,  like  the  summer,  who  blazeth 

As  a  fire  of  blasting  heat,  fed  by  withered 

Crumbling  weeds  of  my  spring. 

My  sunset,  like  the  fall  who  ripeneth 

The  season's  offerings.    And  hoar  frost 

Is  my  winter  night,  fraught  with  borrowed  warmth, 

And  flowers,  and  filled  with  weeds, 

Which  spring  e'en  'neath  the  frozen  waste? 

Ah,  is  the  winter  then  my  season's  close? 

Or  will  I  pin  a  faith  to  hope  and  look 

Again  for  spring,-  who  lives  eternal  in  my  soul? 


THE  IDEAS  ON  IMMORTALITY       253 

Faith  is  the  keynote  of  many  of  her  songs, 
the  faith  that  grows  out  of  that  profound  love 
which  is  the  essential  principle  of  the  religion 
she  presents.  The  triumph  of  faith  she  ex- 
presses in  the  poem  which  follows : 

0  sea !    The  panting  bosom  of  the  Earth ; 
The  sighing,  singing  carol  of  her  heart! 

1  watch  thee  and  I  dream  a  dream 
Whose  fruit  doth  sicken  me. 

White  sails  do  fleck  thy  sheen,  and  yonder  moon 

Doth  seem  to  dip  thy  depths 

And  sail  the  silver  mirror,  high  above. 

Unharbored  do  I  rove.     Along  the  shore  behind, 

The  shadow  of  Tomorrow  creepeth  on. 

A  seething  silvered  path  doth  stretch  thy  length, 

To  meet  the  curving  cheek  of  Lady  Moon. 

I  dream  the  flutt'ring  waves  to  fanning  wings 

And  fain  would  follow  in  their  course.    But  stay! 

My  barque  doth  plow  anew,  and  set  the  wings  to 

flight; 

For  though  I  watch  their  tremorous  mass,  my  craft 
But  saileth  harbor-loosed,  and  ever  stretcheth  far 
Beyond  the  moon's  own  phantom  path — 
And  I  but  dream  a  dream  whose  fruit  doth  sicken  me. 
Ah,  Sea!  who  planted  thee,  and  cast 
A  silver  purse,  unloosed,  upon  thy  breast? 


254  PATIENCE  WORTH 

My  barque,  who  then  did  harbor  it, 

And  who  unfurled  its  sail? 

And  yonder  moon,  from  whence  her  silver  coaxed? 

Methinks  my  dream  doth  wax  her  wroth, 

Else  why  the  pallor  o'er  her  cast? 

Dare  I  to  sail,  to  steer  me  at  the  wheel? 

Shall  I  then  hide  my  face  and  cease  my  murmuring, 

O'erf earful  lest  I  find  the  port? 

Nay,  I  do  know  thee,  Lord,  and  fearless  sail  me  on, 

To  harbor  then  at  dawning  of  new  day. 

I  stand  un fearful  at  the  prow. 

At  anchor  rests  my  barque.    Away,  thou  phantom 

Moon, 

And  restless,  seething  path  f 
My  chart  I  cast  unto  the  sea, 
For  I  do  know  Thee,  Lord! 

This  triumph  of  faith  is  also  the  theme  of  the 
weird  allegory  which  follows.  It  is,  perhaps, 
the  most  mystical  of  Patience's  productions. 


THE  PHANTOM  AND  THE  DREAMER 

Phantom: 

Thick  stands  the  hill  in  garb  of  fir, 

And  winter-stripped  the  branching  shrub. 

Cold  gray  the  sky,  and  glistered  o'er 

With  star-dust  pulsing  tremorously. 

Snow,  the  lady  of  the  Winter  Knight, 

Hath  danced  her  weary  and  fallen  to  her  rest. 

She  lieth  stretched  in  purity 

And  dimpled  'neath  the  trees. 

A  trackless  waste  doth  lie  from  hill 

To  valley  'neath,  and  Winter's  Knight 

Doth  sing  a  wooing  lay  unto  his  love. 

Cot  on  cot  doth  stand  deserted, 

And  thro'  the  purpled  dark  they  show 

Like  phantoms  of  a  life  long  passed 

To  nothingness.    Hear  thou  the  hollowness 

Of  the  sea's  coughing  beat  against 

The  cliff  beneath,  and  harken  ye 

To  the  silence  of  the  valley  there. 

Doth  chafe  ye  of  thy  loneliness? 

sleep  and  let  me  put  a  dream,  to 


256  PATIENCE  WORTH 

See  ye  the  cot — 

A  speck  o'  dark  adown  the  hillside, 
And  sheltered  o'er  with  fir-bows, 
Heavy-laden  with  the  kiss  of  Lady  Snow? 
Come  hither  then.    Let's  bruise  this  snowy  breast, 
And  fetch  us  there  unto  its  door. 

See!    Here  a  twig 
Hath  battled  with  the  wind,  and  lost. 
We  then  may  cast  it  'mid  its  brothers 
Of  the  bush  and  plow  us  on. 
Look  ye  to  the  thick  thatch 
O'er  the  gable  of  the  roof, 
Piled  higher  with  a  blanketing  of  snow; 
And  shutters  hang  agape,  to  rattle 
Like  the  cackle  of  a  crone. 
The  blackness  of  a  pit  within, 
And  filled  with  sounds  that  tho'  they  be 
But  seasoning  of  the  log,  doth  freeze 
Thy  marrowmeat.     I  feel  the  quake 
And  shake  thee  for  thy  fear. 

Stride  thou  within  and  set  a  flint  to  brush 
Within  the  chimney-place.     We  then  shall  rouse 
The  memory  of  the  tenant  here — 
A  night,  my  friend,  thee'lt  often  call  to  mind. 
The  flame  hath  sprung  and  lappeth  at  the  twigs. 
Thee'lt  watch  the  burning  of  thy  hastiness, 


THE  IDEAS  ON  IMMORTALITY      257 

And  wait  thee  long 

Until  the  embers  slip  away  to  smoke. 

Then  strain  ye  to  its  weaving 

And  spell  to  me  the  reading  of  its  folds. 

Dreamer: 

I  see  thin,  threading  lines  that  writhe  them 

To  a  shape — a  visage  ever  changeful, 

Or  mine  eyes  do  play  me  false, 

For  it  doth  smile  to  twist  it  to  a  leer, 

And  sadden  but  to  laugh  in  mockery. 

I  see  a  lad  whose  face 

Doth  shine  illumed,  and  he  doth  bear 

The  kiss  of  wisdom  on  his  brow. 

I  see  him  travail  'neath  a  weary  load, 

And  close  beside  him  Wisdom  follows  on. 

Burdened  not  is  he.    Do  I  see  aright? 

For  still  the  light  of  wisdom  shineth  o'er. 

But  stay!    What!    Do  mine  eyes  then  cheat? 

This  twisting  smoke-wreath 

Filleth  all  too  much  my  sight ! 

Phantom : 

Nay,  friend,  strain  thee  now  anew. 

The  lad !    Now  canst  thou  see  ? 

Nay,  for  like  to  him 

Thou  hast  looked  thee  at  the  face  of  Doubt/ 


258  PATIENCE  WORTH 

Dreamer: 

Who  art  thou,  shape  or  phantom,  then, 
That  thou  canst  set  my  dream  to  flight? 
I  doubt  me  that  the  lad  could  stand 
Beneath  the  load ! 

Phantom : 

Nay,  thee  canst  ravel  well,  my  friend. 

The  lad  was  thee,  and  Doubt 

O'ertook  with  Wisdom  on  thy  way. 

Come,  bury  *Doubt  aneath  the  ash. 

We  travel  us  anew. 

Seest  thou,  a  rimming  moon  doth  show 

From  'neath  the  world's  beshadowed  side. 

A  night  bird  chatteth  to  its  mate, 

And  lazily  the  fir-boughs  wave. 

We  track  us  to  the  cot  whose  roof 

Doth  sag — and  why  thy  shambling  tread? 

I  bid  ye  on ! 

Dreamer: 

Who  art  thou — again  I  that  demand — 
That  I  shall  follow  at  thy  bidding? 
Who  set  me  then  this  task? 

Phantom  : 

Step  thou  within! 

Stand  thee  on  the  thresh  of  this  roofless  void !, 


THE  IDEAS  ON  IMMORTALITY       259 

Look  thou!     Dost  see  the  maid 
Who  coyly  stretcheth  forth  her  hand 
To  welcome  thee?    She  biddeth  thee 
To  sit  and  sup.    I  bid  thee  speak. 
Awaken  thee  unto  her  welcoming. 

Dreamer: 

Enough!    This  fancy-breeding  sickeneth 

My  very  soul!    A  skeleton  of  murdered  trees, 

Ribbed  with  pine  and  shanked  of  birch ! 

And  thee  wouldst  bid  me  then 

Embrace  the  emptiness. 

I  see  naught,  and  believe  but  what  I  see. 

Phantom: 

Look  thou  again,  and  strain. 

What  seest  thou? 

Dreamer: 

I  see  a  newly  kindled  fire, 

And  watch  its  burning  glow  until 

The  embers  die  and  send  their  ghosts  aloft. 

But  ash  remaineth — and  I  chill ! 

For  rising  there,  a  shape 

Whose  visage  twisteth  drunkenly, 

And  from  her  garments  falls  a  dust  of  ash. 


260  PATIENCE  WORTH 

Phantom: 

Doubt!     Unburied,  friende!     We  journey  on, 

And  mark  ye  well  each  plodding  footfall 

Singing  like  to  golden  metal  with  the  frost. 

The  night  a  scroll  of  white,  and  lined 

With  blackish  script — 

The  lines  of  His  own  putting! 

Read  thee  there !    Thou  seest  naught, 

And  believe  but  what  ye  see  I 

Stark  nakedness  and  waste — but  hearken  ye ! 

The  frost  skirt  traileth  o'er  the  crusted  snow 

And  singeth  young  leaves'  songs  of  Spring. 

Still  art  thou  blind! 

But  at  His  touching  shall  the  darkness  bud 

And  bloom  to  rosy  morn.    And  even  now, 

Were  I  to  snap  a  twig  'twould  bleed  and  die. 

See  ye;  'tis  done!    Look  ye! 

Ye  believe  but  what  ye  see  : 

Here  within  thy  very  hand 

Thou  boldest  Doubt's  undoing. 

I  bid  ye  look  upon  the  bud 

Already  gathered  'neath  the  tender  bark. 

The  sun's  set  and  rise  hath  coaxed  it  forth. 

Thee  canst  see  the  rogue  hath  stolen  red 

And  put  it  to  its  heart.    And  here 

Aneath  the  snow  the  grass  doth  love  the  earth 


THE  IDEAS  ON  IMMORTALITY      261 

And  nestles  to  her  breast. 

I  stand  me  here,  and  lo,  the  Spring  hath  broke! 

The  dark  doth  slip  away  to  hide, 

And  flowering,  singing,  sighing,  loving  Spring 

Is  here! 

Dreamer: 

Aye,  thou  art  indeed 

A  wonder-worker  in  the  night ! 

A  black  pall,  a  freezing  blast, 

An  unbroken  path — and  thou 

Wouldst  have  me  then  to  prate  o'  Spring, 

And  pluck  a  bud  where  dark  doth  hide  the  bush! 

Who  cometh  from  the  thicket  higher  there? 

Phantom: 

'Tis  Doubt  to  meet  thee,  friend ! 

Dreamer: 

Who  art  thou?    I  fain  would  flee, 
And  yet  I  fear  to  leave  lest  I  be  lost. 
I  hate  thee  and  thy  weary  task! 

Phantom: 

Nay,  brother,  thy  lips  do  spell, 

But  couldst  thee  read  their  words  aright 

Thee  wouldst  meet  again  with  Doubt. 

Come !    We  j  ourney  on  unto  the  cot 


PATIENCE  WORTH 

Beloved  the  most  by  me.    I  bid  thee 

Let  thy  heart  to  warm  within  thy  breast. 

A  thawing  melteth  frozen  Hope. 

See  how,  below,  the  sea  hath  veiled 

Her  secret  held  so  close, 

And  murmured  only  to  the  winds 

Who  woo  her  ever  and  anon. 

The  waves  do  lap  them,  hungry  for  the  sands. 

Careful!    Lest  the  sun's  pale  rise 

Should  blind  thee  with  its  light. 

A  shaft  to  put  it  through 

The  darkness  of  thy  soul  must  needs 

But  be  a  glimmering  to  blind. 

Step  ye  to  the  hearthstone  then, 

And  set  thee  there  a  flame  anew. 

I  bid  ye  read  again 

The  folding  of  the  smoke. 

Dreamer: 

'Tis  done,  thou  fiend ! 

A  pretty  play  for  fools,  indeed. 

I  swear  me  that  'tis  not 

For  loving  of  the  task  I  builded  it, 

But  for  the  warming  of  its  glow. 

Phantom : 

In  truth  ye  speak.  But  read! 


THE  IDEAS  ON  IMMORTALITY      263 

Dreamer: 

I  see  a  hag  whose  brow 

Doth  wrinkle  like  a  summer  sea. 

For  do  I  look  unto  the  sea 

At  Beauty's  own  fair  form, 

It  writheth  to  a  twisted  shape, 

And  I  do  doubt  me  of  her  loveliness. 

The  haggard  visage  of  the  crone 

I  now  behold,  doth  set  me  doubting 

Of  mine  eye,  for  dimples  seem 

To  flutter  'neath  the  wrinkled  cheek. 

Phantom: 

So,  then,  thee  believes t 

But  what  thine  eyes  behold! 

Thee  findest  then 

Thy  seeing  in  a  sorry  plight. 

I  marvel  at  thy  wisdom,  lad. 

Look  ye  anew.    Mayhap  thee  then 

Canst  coax  the  crone  away. 

Dreamer: 

Enough !    The  morn  hath  kissed  the  night  adieu, 

And  even  while  I  prate 

A  redwing  crimsoneth  the  snow  in  flight. 

Kindled  tinder  smoldereth  away, 

And  I  do  strain  me  to  its  fold. 


PATIENCE  WORTH 

I  glut  me  of  the  loveliness  I  there  behold, 

For  from  the  writhing  stream  a  sprite  is  born 

Whose  beauteous  form  bedazzles  me, 

And  she  doth  point  me 

To  the  golding  gray  of  morn.     The  sea 

Is  singing,  singing  her  unto  my  soul. 

I  dreamed  she  sighed,  but  waked  to  hear  her  sing. 

I  hear  thee,  Phantom,  bidding  me  on,  on ! 

But  morn  hath  stolen  dreams  away. 

I  strain  me  to  the  hills  to  trace  our  path, 

And  lo,  unbroken  is  the  snow, 

And  cots  have  melted  with  the  light, 

And  yet,  methinks  a  murmuring  doth  come 

From  out  the  echoes  of  the  night, 

That  hid  them  'neath  the  crannies  of  the  hills. 

Life!    Life!    I  lead  thee  on! 

And  faith  doth  spring  from  seedlings  of  thy  doubt ! 

EPILOGUE. 

Thick  stands  the  hill  in  garb  of  fir  and  snow. 
The  Lady  of  the  Winter's  Knight  hath  danced 
Her  weary,  and  stretched  her  in  her  purity, 
To  cover  aching  wounds  of  Winter's  overloving  woo. 


"  And  faith  doth  spring  from  seedlings  of 
thy  doubt! "  plainly  meaning  an  active  doubt 
that  searches  for  the  truth  and  finds  it.  But 
she  personifies  Doubt  in  another  and  more  for- 
bidding form  in  this : 

Like  to  a  thief  who  wrappeth  him 

Within  the  night-tide's  robe, 

So  standeth  the  specter  o'  the  Earth; 

Yea,  he  doth  robe  him  o'  the  Earth's  fair  store. 

Yea,  he  decketh  in  the  star-hung  purple  o'  the  eve, 

And  reacheth  from  out  the  night  unto  the  morn, 

And  wringeth  from  her  waking  all  her  gold, 

And  at  his  touching,  lo,  the  stars  are  dust, 

And  morn's  gold  but  heat's  glow,  and  ne'er 

The  golden  blush  of  His  own  metal  store. 

Yea,  he  strideth  then 
Upon  the  flower-hung  couches  of  the  field, 
And  traileth  him  thereon  his  robe, 
And  lo,  the  flowers  do  die  of  thirst 
And  parch  of  scoarching  of  his  breath. 


266  PATIENCE  WORTH 

Yea,  and  'mid  the  musics  of  the  earth  he  strideth  him, 

And  full-songed  throats  are  mute. 

Yea,  music  dieth  of  his  luring  glance. 

And  e'en  the  love  of  earth  he  seeketh  out 

And  turneth  it  unto  a  folly-play. 

Yea,  beneath  his  glance,  the  fairy  frost 

Upon  the  love  sprite's  wing 

Doth  flutter,  as  a  dust,  and  drop,  and  leave 

But  bruised  and  broken  bearers  for  His  store. 

Yea,  and  'mid  man's  day  he  ever  strideth  him 
And  layeth  low  man's  reasoning.     His  robes 
Are  hung  of  all  the  earth's  most  loved. 
From  off  the  flowers  their  fresh ;  from  off  the  day 
The  fairness  of  her  hours.    For  dark,  and  hid 
Beneath  his  cloak,  he  steppeth  ever, 
And  doth  hiss  his  name  to  thee — 
Doubt. 

I  have  said  that  the  message  of  Patience 
Worth  contained  a  revelation,  a  religion  and  a 
promise.  The  revelation  is  too"obvious  to  need 
a  pointer.  In  the  preceding  chapter  were  pre- 
sented the  elements  of  the  religion  that  she  re- 
veals, with  which  should  be  included  the  un- 
faltering faith  expressed  in  these  poems.  Love 
and  Faith — these  are  the  two  Graces  upon 


THE  IDEAS  ON  IMMORTALITY       267 

whom,  to  personify  them,  all  her  work  is  rested, 
and  from  them  spring  the  promise  she  conveys. 
That  promise  has  to  do  with  the  hereafter,  and 
Patience  knows  the  human  attitude  in  relation 
to  that  universal  problem,  and  she  gives  cour- 
age to  the  shrinking  heart  in  this  poem  on  the 
fear  of  death: 

I  stride  abroad  before  my  brothers  like  a  roaring  lion, 
Yet  at  even's  close  from  whence  cometh  the  icy  hand 
That  clutcheth  at  my  heart  and  maketh  me  afraid — 
The  slipping  of  myself  away,  I  know  not  whither? 

And  lo,  I  fall  atremble. 

When  I  would  grasp  a  straw,  'tis  then  I  find  it  not. 
Can  I  then  trust  me  on  this  journey  lone 
To  country  I  deem  peopled,  but  know  not? 
My  very  heart  declareth  faith,  yet  hath  not  thine 
Been  touched  and  chilled  by  this  same  phantom? 
Ah,  through  the  granite  sips  the  lichen — 
And  hast  thou  not  a  long  dark  journey  made? 
Why  fear?    As  cloud  wreaths  fade 
From  spring's  warm  smile,  so  shall  fear 
Be  put  to  flight  by  faith. 

I  pluck  me  buds  of  varied  hue  and  choose  the  violet 
To  weave  a  garland  for  my  loved  and  best. 


268  PATIENCE  WORTH 

I  search  for  bloom  among  the  rocks 

And  find  but  feathery  plume. 
I  weave,  and  lo,  the  blossoms  fade 

Before  I  reach  the  end, 
And  faded  lie  amid  my  tears — 

And  yet  I  weave  and  weave. 
I  search  for  jewels  'neath  the  earth, 

And  find  them  at  the  dawn, 
Besprinkled  o'er  the  rose  and  leaf, 
And  showered  by  the  sparrow's  wing, 
Who  seeketh  'mid  the  dew-wet  vine 

A  harbor  for  her  home. 
I  search  for  truth  along  the  way 

And  find  but  dust  and  web, 
And  in  the  smile  of  infant  lips 

I  know  myself  betrayed. 
I  watch  the  swallow  skim  across  the  blue 

To  homelands  of  the  South, 
And  ah,  the  gnawing  at  my  heart  doth  cease; 

For  how  he  wings  and  wings 
To  lands  he  deemeth  peopled  by  his  brothers, 
Whose  song  he  hears  in  flight! 
Not  skimming  on  the  lake's  fair  breast  is  he, 
But  winging  on  and  on, 
And  dim  against  the  feathery  cloud 

He  fades  into  the  blue. 


THE  IDEAS  ON  IMMORTALITY       269 

I  stand  with  withered  blossoms  crushed, 
And  weave  and  weave  and  weave. 


This  is  Patience's  answer  to  the  eternal 
question : 

Can  I  then  trust  me  on  this  journey  lone 
To  country  I  deem  peopled,  but  know  not? 

It  is  the  cry  of  him  who  behaves  and  yet 
doubts,  and  Patience  points  to  the  swallow 
winging  across  the  blue  "  to  lands  he  deemeth 
peopled  with  his  brothers  "  who  have  gone  on 
before.  In  imagination  he  can  hear  their  song 
in  the  home  lands  of  the  South,  and  though  he 
cannot  see  them,  and  cannot  have  had  word 
from  them,  he  knows  they  are  there,  and  he 
does  not  skim  uncertainly  about  the  lake,  but 
with  unfaltering  faith  "  wings  him  on  and  on  " 
until — 

Dim  against  the  feathery  cloud 
He  fades  into  the  blue. 

But  Patience  does  not  content  herself  with 
appeals  to  faith,  eloquent  as  they  may  be. 


270  PATIENCE  WORTH 

While  her  communications  are  always  clothed 
in  figures  of  speech,  they  are  sometimes  more 
definite  in  statement  than  in  the  lines  which 
have  been  thus  far  presented.  In  the  prose 
poem  which  follows,  she  asks  and  answers  the 
question  in  a  way  that  can  leave  no  doubt  of 
her  meaning: 

"  Shall  I  arise  and  know  thee,  brother,  when 
like  a  bubble  I  am  blown  into  Eternity  from 
this  pipe  of  clay?  Or  shall  I  burst  and  float 
my  atoms  in  a  joyous  spray  at  the  first  behold- 
ing of  this  home  prepared  for  thee  and  me, 
and  shall  we  together  mingle  our  joys  in  one 
supreme  joy  in  Him?  It  matters  not,  beloved, 
so  comfort  thee.  For  should  the  blowing  be 
the  end,  what  then?  Hath  not  thy  pack  been 
full,  and  mine?  We  are  o'erweary  with  the 
work  of  living,  and  sinking  to  oblivion  would 
be  rest.  Yet  sure  as  sun  shall  rise,  my  dust 
shall  be  unloosed,  and  blow  into  new  fields  of 
new  days.  I  see  full  fields  yet  to  be  harvested, 
and  I  am  weary.  I  see  fresh  business  of  living, 
work  yet  to  be  done,  and  I  am  weary.  Oh,  let 


THE  IDEAS  ON  IMMORTALITY       271 

me  fold  these  tired  hands  and  sleep.  Beloved, 
I  trust,  and  expect  my  trust,  for  ne'er  yet  did 
He  fail." 

She  puts  this  into  the  mouth  of  one  who 
lives,  but  it  is  not  merely  an  expression  of 
faith;  it  is  a  positive  assertion.  "  Yet  sure  as 
sun  shall  rise,  my  dust  shall  be  unloosed,  and 
blow  into  new  fields  of  new  days." 

And  again  she  sings: 

What  carest,  dear,  should  sorrow  trace 

Where  dimples  sat,  and  should 

Her  dove-gray  cloud  to  settle  'neath  thine  eye? 

The  withering  of  thy  curving  cheek 

Bespeaks  the  spending  of  thy  heart. 

Lips  once  full  are  bruised 

By  biting  of  restraint.    Wax  wiser,  dear. 

To  wane  is  but  to  rest  and  rise  once  more. 

Or  she  puts  the  thought  in  another  form  in 
this  assurance: 

Weary  not,  O  brother! 

'Tis  apaled,  the  sun's  gold  sink. 

Then  weary  not,  but  set  thy  path  to  end, 

E'en  as  the  light  doth  fade  and  leave 


PATIENCE  WORTH 

Nay  trace  to  mar  the  night's  dark  tide. 
Sink  them,  then,  as  doth  the  sun, 
Assured  that  thou  shalt  rise! 


All  these,  however,  are  but  preparatory  to 
the  communication  in  which  she  asserts  not 
only  the  actuality  of  the  future  life  but  some- 
thing of  the  nature  of  it.  One  might  say  that 
the  preceding  poems  and  prose-poems,  taken 
alone  and  without  regard  to  the  mystery  of 
their  source,  were  merely  expressions  of  belief, 
but  in  this  communication  she  seems  to  speak 
with  knowledge,  seems  even  to  have  over- 
stepped the  bounds  within  which,  she  has  often 
asserted,  she  is  held.  "  My  lips  be  astopped," 
she  has  said  in  answer  to  a  request  for  informa- 
tion of  this  forbidden  character,  but  here  she 
appears  to  have  been  permitted  to  give  a 
glimpse  of  the  unknown,  and  to  present  a 
promise  of  universal  application.  This  poem, 
from  the  spiritual  standpoint,  is  the  most  re- 
markable of  all  her  productions. 

How  have  I  caught  at  fleeting  joys 
And  swifter  fleeting  sorrows! 


THE  IDEAS  ON  IMMORTALITY      273 

And  days  and  nights,  and  morns  and  eves, 

And  seasons,  too,  aslipping  thro'  the  years,  afleet. 

And  whither  hath  their  trend  then  led? 

Ah,  whither! 

How  do  I  to  stop  amid  the  very  pulse  o'  life. 
Afeared !    Yea,  fear  clutcheth  at  my  very  heart ! 
For  what?    The  night?    Nay,  night  doth  shimmer 
And  flash  the  jewels  I  did  count 
E'er  fear  had  stricken  me. 

The  morn?    Nay,  I  waked  with  morn  atremor, 

And  know  the  day-tide's  every  hour. 

How  do  I  then  to  clutch  me 

At  my  heart,  af eared? 

The  morrow?     Nay, 

The  morrow  but  bringeth  old  loves 

And  hopes  anew. 

Ah,  woe  is  me,  'tis  emptiness,  aye,  naught — 
The  bottomlessness  o'  the  pit  that  doth  afrighfc! 
Afeared?     Aye,  but  driven  fearless  on! 

What!    Promise  ye 'tis  to  mart  I  plod? 
What!     Promise  ye  new  joys? 
Ah,  but  should  I  sleep,  to  waken  me 
To  joys  I  ne'er  had  supped! 


PATIENCE  WORTH 

I  see  me  stand  abashed  and  timid, 
As  a  child  who  cast  a  toy  beloved, 
For  bauble  that  but  caught  the  eye 
And  left  the  heart  ahungered. 

What !    Should  I  search  in  vain 
To  find  a  sorrow  that  had  fleeted  hence 
Afore  my  coming  and  found  it  not? 
Ah,  me,  the  emptiness ! 

And  what!  should  joys  that  but  a  prick 

Of  gladness  dealt,  and  teased  my  hours 

To  happiness,  be  lost  amid  this  promised  bliss? 

Nay,  I  clutch  me  to  my  heart 

In  fear,  in  truth  I 

Do  harken  Ye !    And  cast  afearing 

To  the  wiles  of  beating  gales  and  wooing  breeze. 

I  find  me  throat  aswell  and  voice  attuned. 

Ah,  let  me  then  to  sing,  for  joy  consumeth  me  I 

I've  builded  me  a  land,  my  mart, 

And  fear  hath  slipped  away  to  leave  me  sing. 

I  sleep,  and  feel  afloating. 
Whither!     Whither!     To  wake,— 
And  wonder  warmeth  at  my  heart, 
I've  waked  in  yester-year! 


THE  IDEAS  ON  IMMORTALITY      275 

What!    Ye?    And  what  I    I'st  them? 

Ah,  have  I  then  slept,  to  dream?    Come, 

Ne'er  a  dream-wraith  looked  me  such  a  welcoming ! 

'Twas  yesterday  this  hand  wert  then  afold, 

And  now, — ah,  do  I  dream? 

'Tis  warm-pressed  within  mine  own! 

Dreams !    Dreams !    And  yet,  we've  met  afore ! 

I  see  me  flitting  thro'  this  vale, 

And  tho'  I  strive  to  spell 

The  mountain's  height  and  valley's  depth, 

I  do  but  fall  afail. 

Wouldst  thou  then  drink  a  potion 

Were  I  to  offer  thee  an  empty  cup? 

Couldst  thou  to  pluck  the  rainbow  from  the  sky? 

As  well,  then,  might  I  spell  to  thee. 

But  I  do  promise  at  the  waking, 
Old  joys,  and  sorrows  ripened  to  a  mellow  heart. 
And  e'en  the  crime-stained  wretch,  abasked  in  light, 
Shall  cast  his  seed  and  spring  afruit! 

Then  do  I  cease  to  clutch  the  emptiness 
And  sleep,  and  sleep  me  unafeared! 

What  is  it  that  affrights,  she  asks,  when  we 
think  of  death?    It  is  the  emptiness,  she  an- 


276  PATIENCE  WORTH 

swers,  the  utter  lack  of  knowledge  of  what 
lies  beyond.  And  if  we  waken  to  "  joys  we 
ne'er  have  supped  " — using  the  word  sup  in 
the  sense  of  to  taste  or  to  know — what  is  there 
to  attract  us  in  the  prospect?  It  is  an  illustra- 
tion she  presents  of  our  attitude  toward  prom- 
ises of  joys  with  which  we  are  unfamiliar;  and 
which  therefore  do  not  greatly  interest  us — 
the  child  who  casts  aside  a  well  beloved  toy 
"  for  bauble  that  but  caught  the  eye  and  left 
•the  heart  ahungered."  Shall  the  joys,  she 
makes  us  exclaim,  which  we  have  known  here 
but  barely  tasted  in  this  fleeting  life,  "  be 
lost  amid  this  promised  bliss!"  and  shall  we 
"  search  in  vain  to  find  a  sorrow  that  had 
fleeted  hence  before  our  coming?  " — meaning, 
apparently,  shall  we  look  there  in  vain  for  a 
loved  one  who  has  gone  before?  She  answers 
these  questions  of  the  heart.  Personality  per- 
sists beyond  the  grave,  she  gives  us  plainly  to 
understand.  We  take  with  us  all  of  ourselves 
but  the  material  elements.  "  Thou  art  ye," 
she  has  said,  "  and  I  be  me  and  ye  be  ye,  aye, 
ever  so."  The  transition  is  but  a  change  from 


THE  IDEAS  ON  IMMORTALITY 

the  material  to  the  spiritual.  We  "  wake  in 
yesteryear,"  she  says, — amid  the  friends  and 
associations  of  the  past;  and  the  joys  of  that 
life,  one  must  infer,  are  the  spiritual  joys  of 
this  one,  the  joy  that  comes  from  love,  from 
good  deeds,  from  work  accomplished.  For  it 
is  quite  evident  that  she  would  have  us  believe 
that  there  is  a  continuous  advancement  in  that 
other  life. 

And  e'en  the  crime-stained  wretch,  abasked  in  light, 
Shall  cast  his  seed  and  spring  afruit. 

This  can  mean  nothing  else  than  that  the 
hardened  sinner,  amid  supernal  influences, 
shall  develop  into  something  higher,  and  as  no 
one  can  be  supposed  to  be  perfect  when  leaving 
earth,  it  follows  that  progress  is  common  to  all. 
Progress  implies  effort,  and  this  indicates  that 
there  will  be  something  for  everyone  to  do — a 
view  quite  different  from  the  monotony  of 
eternal  idleness. 

But  this  I  promise  at  the  waking, 

Old  joys,  and  sorrows  ripened  to  a  mellow  heart. 


278  PATIENCE  WORTH 

To  those  who  would  peer  into  the  other  land 
these  are  perhaps  the  most  important  lines  she 
has  given.  But  what  does  she  mean  by  "  sor- 
rows ripened  to  a  mellow  heart? "  She  was 
asked  to  make  that  plainer  and  she  said: 

"  That  that  hath  flitted  hence  be  sorrows  of 
earth,  and  ahere  be  ripened  and  thine.  Love 
alost  be  sorrow  of  earth  and  dwell  ahere." 

She  thus  makes  these  lines  an  answer  to  the 
question  put  before: 

What!     Should  I  search  in  vain 
To  find  a  sorrow  that  had  fleeted  hence 
Afore  my  coming  and  found  it  not? 

These  are  the  sorrows  that  are  "  ripened 
to  a  mellow  heart,"  and  she  was  asked  if  there 
were  new  sorrows  to  be  borne  in  that  other 
life.  She  replied: 

"  Nay.  Earth  be  a  home  of  sorrow's  dream. 
For  sorrow  be  but  dream  of  the  soul  asleep. 
'Tis  wake  (death)  that  setteth  free." 

And  after  such  assurance  comes  the  cry  of 
faith  and  content  and  peace: 


THE  IDEAS  ON  IMMORTALITY      279 

Then  do  I  cease  to  clutch  the  emptiness, 
And  sleep,  and  sleep  me  unaf eared! 

With  this  comforting  assurance  in  mind  one 
may  cheerfully  approach  her  solemn  address 
to  Death: 

Who  art  thou, 

Who  tracketh  'pon  the  path  o'  me — 

O'  each  turn,  aye,  and  track? 

Thou!    And  thou  astand! 

And  o'er  thy  face  a  cloud, 

Aye,  a  darked  and  somber  cloud ! 

Who  art  thou, 

Thou  tracker  'mid  the  day's  bright, 

And  'mid  the  night's  deep; 

E'en  when  I  be  astopped  o'  track? 

Who  art  thou, 

That  toucheth  o'  the  flesh  o'  me, 

And  sendeth  chill  unto  the  heart  o'  me? 

Aye,  and  who  art  thou, 

Who  putteth  forth  thy  hand 

And  setteth  at  alow  the  hopes  o'  me? 

Aye,  who  art  thou, 

Who  bideth  ever  'mid  a  dream? 


280  PATIENCE  WORTH 

Aye,  and  that  the  soul  o'  me 
Doth  shrink  at  know? 


Whoartthou?    Who  art  thou, 
Who  steppeth  ever  to  my  day, 
And  blotteth  o'  the  sun  away? 

Who  art  thou, 

Who  stepped  to  Earth  at  birth  o'  me, 
And  e'en  'mid  wail  o'  weak, 
Aye,  at  the  birth  o'  wail, 
Did  set  a  chill  'pon  infant  flesh ; 
And  at  the  track  o'  man  'pon  Earth 
Doth  follow  ever,  and  at  height  afollow, 
And  doth  touch,  ,.. 

And  all  doth  crumble  to  a  naught. 
Thou!  Thou!  Who  art  thou? 
Ever  do  I  to  ask,  and  ever  wish 
To  see  the  face  o'  thee, 
And  ne'er,  ne'er  do  I  to  know  thee — 
Thou,  the  Traveler  'pon  the  path  o'  me. 
And,  Brother,  thou  dost  give 
That  which  world  doth  hold 
From  see  o'  me! 

Stand  thou !    Stand  thou ! 

And  draw  thy  cloak  from  o'er  thy  face ! 


;THE  IDEAS  ON  IMMORTALITY 

Ever  hath  the  dread  o'  thee 
Clutched  at  the  heart  o'  me. 
Aye,  and  at  the  end  o'  journey, 
I  beseech  thee, 

Cast  thy  cloak  and  show  thee  me! 
Aye,  show  thee  me! 

Ah,  thou  art  the  gift  o'  Him  ! 

The  Key  to  There  1    The  Love  o'  Earth  ! 

Aye,  and  Hate  hath  made  o'  man 

To  know  thee  not  — 

Thou!  Thou!  O  Death! 


She  finds  Death  terrible  from  the  human 
point  of  view,  and  reveals  him  at  the  end  as 
"  the  gift  of  Him,  the  Key  to  There!  " 

One  of  her  constant  objects  seems  to  be  to 
rob  death  of  its  terrors,  and  to  bring  the 
'  There  "  into  closer  and  more  intimate  con- 
nection with  us.  Here  is  another  effort: 

Spring's  morn  afulled  o'  merry-song, 
Aye,  and  tickle  o'  streams-thread  through  Summer's 
noon; 

Arock  o'  hum  o'  hearts-throb, 

And  danced  awhite  the  air  at  scorch; 


282  PATIENCE  WORTH 

Winter's  rage  asing  o'  cold 

And    wail    o'    Winter's     sorry    at    the    Summer's 
leave ; 


Ashivered  breeze,  abear  o'  leaf's  rustling 
At  dry  o'  season's  ripe; 

Night's  deep,  where  sound  astarteth  silence; 
Morn's  sweet,  awooed  by  bird's  coax. 

Earth's  sounds,  ye  deem? 

I  tell  thee  'tis  but  the  echoing  o'  Here. 

Thy  days  be  naught 
Save  coax  o'  Here  athere ! 

All  that  is  worth  while  pn  earth  is  but  the 
echoes  of  Heaven,  and  there  would  be  noth- 
ing to  life  but  for  the  joys  that  have  been 
"  coaxed "  from  there.  How  closely  that 
thought  unites  the  here  and  the  there.  Earth 
sounds  but  the  echoes  of  the  other  land  adjoin- 
ing! She  makes  it  something  tangible,  some- 
thing almost  material,  something  we  may 
nearly  comprehend;  and  then,  having  opened 


THE  IDEAS  ON  IMMORTALITY 

the  door  a  little  way,  as  far,  no  doubt,  as  it  is 
possible  for  her  to  do,  she  presents  this  re- 
sponse to  human  desires,  this  promise  of  joys 
to  come : 

Swift  as  light-flash  o'  storm,  swift,  swift, 

Would  I  send  the  wish  o'  thine  asearch. 

Swift,  swift  as  bruise  o5  swallows' wing  'pon  air, 

I'd  send  asearch  thy  wish,  areach  to  lands  unseen; 

I'd  send  aback  o'  answer  laden. 

Swift,  swift,  would  I  to  flee  unto  the  Naught 

Thou  knowest  as  the  Here. 

Swift,  swift  I'd  bear  aback  to  thee 

What  thou  wouldst  seek.     Swift,  swift, 

Would  I  to  bear  aback  to  thee. 

Dost  deem  the  path  ahid  doth  lead  to  naught? 

Dost  deem  thy  footfall  leadest  thee  to  nothing- 
ness ? 

Dost  pin  not  'pon  His  word  o'  promising, 

And  art  at  sorry  and  afear  to  follow  Him? 

I'd  put  athin  thy  cup  a  sweet,  a  pledge  o'  love's- 
buy. 

I'd  send  aback  a  glad-song  o'  this  land. 

Sing  thou,  sing  on,  though  thou  art  ne'er  aheard — 

Like  love  awaked,  the  joy  o'  breath 

Anew  born  o'  His  loving. 


284  PATIENCE  WORTH 

Set  thee  at  rest,  and  trod  the  path  unfearing. 

For  He  who  puti;eth  joy  to  earth,  aplanted  joy 

Athin  the  reach  o'  thee,  e'en  through 

The  dark  o'  path  at  end  o'  journey. 

His  smile!    His  word!    His  loving! 

Put  forth  thy  hand  at  glad,  and  I  do  promise  thee 

That  Joy  o'  earth  asupped  shall  fall  as  naught, 

And  thou  shalt  sup  thee  deep  o'  joys, 

O'  Bearer,  aye,  and  Source ;  and  like  glad  light  o'  day 

And  sweet  o'  love,  thy  coming  here  shall  be! 

• 

With  this  promise,  this  covenant,  we  bring 
the  narrative  of  Patience  to  an  end.  There 
will  be  many  and  widely  varied  views  of  the 
nature  of  this  intelligence,  but  surely  there  can 
be  but  one  opinion  of  the  beauty  of  her  words 
and  the  purity  of  her  purpose.  She  has 
brought  a  message  of  love  at  a  time  when  the 
world  is  sadly  deficient  in  that  attribute,  wisely 
believed  to  be  the  best  thing  in  earth  or  heaven; 
and  an  inspiration  to  faith  that  was  never  so 
greatly  in  need  of  strength  as  now.  An  in- 
evitable consequence  of  the  world-war  will  be  a 
universal  introspection.  There  will  be  a  great 
turning  of  thought  to  serious  things.  That 


THE  IDEAS  ON  IMMORTALITY      285 

tendency  is  already  discernible.  May  it  not  be 
possible  that  it  is  the  mission  of  Patience 
Worth  to  answer  the  question  that  is  above  all 
questions  at  a  time  when  humanity  is  filled 
with  interrogation? 


FINIS. 


INDEX 


Affection,  46 

Allegory,   on    faith     (verse), 

255-266 
Anatomist.     See   Teacher   of 

anatomy 

Anglo-Saxon,    104 
Anne,  145,  146 
Ape,    112,    117 
Aphorisms,  19 
Attunement,  203 
Autumn    (verse),  82,  83,  84 

B.,  Mrs.,   182 
Babe,  parable  of  a,  168 
Bartman,    parable    of   a,    165 
Basketmaker,  parable  of  the, 

167 

Beppo,  112 
Birth  of  a  Song  (verse),  86, 

87 

Blank  verse,  21,  64,  107 
Book  learning,  251 
Books,    60 
Botanist.      See    Teacher    of 

botany 
Brew,  185 
"  Builder  of  dreams  "  (verse), 

85,  86 
Burke,  89 

Capital  punishment,  217 
Carrington,  W.  T.,  quoted,  6 
Charlie,   Prince,   145,    146 
Childhood,  tone  of,  51 
Christ,   122 

Attitude  toward,  244 
Christmas    (verse),  99 
Christmas    story,     122,    123- 

141 
Cloak,  parable  of  the,  171 


Cockshut,  57 
Communications,      character, 

32,  202,  203 
Genuineness,  33,  39,  41 
Intellectual  character,  9,  11 
Method,  187 
Compliments,    49 
Composition,  method,  66,  67, 

80,   164,    185 
Conversations,  character,  173, 

174 
Substance    in    her    words, 

211 

Cup,  224,  225 
Curran,    John    H.,    53,    178, 

199 

Curran,  Mrs.  John  H.,  3,  4, 
14,    31,    41,    45,    46,    182, 
187,  188,  189,  201,  205 
Education,  34 
Sittings,  35,   36 

D.,  Dr.  and  Mrs.,  207-212 

Day,  paean  to  the  (verse),  84 

Death,  fear  of,  196 

Fear   of    (verse),   267-269 
Life    following,    79 
robbed  of  terrors,  281 
Solemn  address  to  (verse), 
279-281 

Devotional  verse,  97 

Divinity  of  the  human,  245 

Doubt    (verse),   365 

Dougal,   145,   146 

Drama,  109 

Six-act   medieval   play   de- 
scribed,   142 

Dress,   references  to,  52,  56, 
192 


287 


288 


INDEX 


Dreams.      See    "Builder    of 

dreams  " 

See   Phantom   also 
Dreamer   (verse),  72,  73 

Earth     questions,     reasoning 

upon,  217 

Eastern  morn,  144,  145 
England,   15,  33,   149 

Northern,   60 

Epigrams.    See  Aphorisms 
Ermalihe,  Princess,  145,  146 

Failures  in  life,  227 

Fairy's  wand,  parable  of,  168 

Faith,    allegory    on     (verse), 

255-266 
Triumph    of    (verse),    253- 

266 

Femininity,  42,  52 
Flesh.     See  Soul 
Folly,    221,    222 
Fool,    112 
Fool     and     the     Lady,     The 

(story),    109,    111-121 
Franco,  151 

Friendship    (verse),    96 
Fun-loving  spirit,  53 
Future.     See   Immortality 

G.,   Miss,   207 
G.,    Mr.,   208 
G.,   Mrs.,   207 
God,  226 

Identity   with,   242 

Love    for    (verse),   237-239 

Song    of,    193 

"Hands"    (verse),  233 
Harp   (verse),  86,  87 
Herbs,  story  of  the,  212-215 
Holmes,  John  Haynes,  quoted, 

10 

Hours  of  day  (verse),  215 
Housekeeping,   42 
Humor,   31 

in  verse,  74,  75,  76 
Hutchings,  Mr.,  53 


Hutchings,  Mrs.  Emily  Grant, 
4,  44,  188 

Imagery,   72,  78 
Immortality,  growth,  277 

Mystery,   249,   250 

Nature,  272 

Reality,    247 

Recognition      of      friends, 

270,   276 

Impatience,  45,  46 
Individuality,   41 
Infancy,  92,  94 
Inn  of  Falcon  Feather,  111 

J.,  Miss,  189,  192,  193 
James,  Wm.,  199,  200 
Jana,  127 

Jane-o'-apes,  58,   131 
John  the  Peaceful,  122,  123, 

132 
Joy,  promise  of  future,  283- 

284 

K.,  Dr.,  195,  199 
King  of  Wisdom,   221 
Kirtle,   55,   56 

Language,    13,    56,    104,    149, 

150,  153,  164,  189 
Laughter,  168 
Leaf,  fallen   (verse),  82 
Leta,  124 

Life  for  a  life,  218 
Life   likened   to    the   seasons 

(verse),   252 
Lisa,  109,  112 
Literature,  223,  224 
Love,   childhood,   51 

Divine  (verse),  235,  236 

for  Christ,  244 

for  the  loveless  (verse),  226 

for    the    wearied     (verse), 
227 

Friendly,  96 

God's  (verse),  97 

Man   and   woman    (verse), 
94 


INDEX 


289 


Love,  maternal,  92,  94 

Religious,   226 

Song,  "Drink  ye  unto  me," 
180 

to  God   (verse),  237-239 

Universal,   234 
"Loves     of     yester's     day" 

(verse),    88 
Lullaby,   64,   example,   68 

Spinning  Wheel,  69 

M.,  Mr.  and  Mrs.,  207-210 

Marion,  153 

Mary,  the  Virgin,  245 

Marye,  Lady,  122,  123 

Massinger,   58 

Maxims.     See  Aphorisms 

Men,  attitude  toward,  49 

Men  and  women,  94 

Merchants,  parable  of,  166 

Message,   224 

Metaphor,  borrowed,  78,  79 

Metaphysics,  29 

Mise-man  song,  179 

Mission,    284 

Mite  and  the  Seeds,  tale  of 

the,    176-178 
Musician,  208 

Nature,  Love  of,  25,  79 

Value  of,  251 
Neurologist,  204 
New  England,  15,  33 
New  Year  (verse),  101 
Newspaper  article,  215 
Newspaper  writer,  189 

Ouija  board,  1,  5,  65,  187 

P.,  Dr.,  204-207 
Parables,   165 

Story  of  the  herbs,  212-215 
Personality,   59 
Pettieskirt,    52,    54,    56,    154, 

186,   205 
Phantom    and    the    Dreamer, 

The   (verse),  255-266 
Physicians,  204 


Physician,    conversation   with 

a  young,  16 
Description,   50 
Poetry.     See  Songs;  Verse 
Pollard,  Mrs.  Mary  E.,  5,  43, 

44 

Prayers,   Character,  239,  243 
Examples    (verse),   239-244 
"  Primrose  path,"  77,  78 
Prose,  107 
Psychic  communications.    See 

Communications 
Puritan,  55,  59,  69,  192 
"Put,"   186-189 

R.,  Dr.,  204-207 

Records    of    communications, 

character,  3 
Regal,  123 
Religion,   223,    226 
Revelation,  225,  226 
Rhyme,  21,  64 
Rhythm,   107 

Sarcasm,  49 

Scottish,  60 

Seed,  224,  225 

Seeds.      See    Mite    and    the 

Seeds 

Self,  221,  222 
Shakespeare,  57,  77,  104 
Shelley,  90,  105 
Simplicity   104,    105 
Sittings,  character,  18,  35 
Skylark    (verse),   89 
Society     for     Psychical     Re- 
search, 223 
Song,  birth  of  a  (verse),  86, 

87 
Songs,  173 

"Do  I  love  the  morn? "215 

"  Drink  ye  unto  me,"  180 

"Gone,   gone,"    198 

"How  have  I  sought!"  203 

"Loth  as  Night,"  211 

Mise-man,   179 

To  Miss  J.,  193 

To  Mr.  G.,  a  musician,  209 


290 


INDEX 


Sorrow,  comfort  for,  231 

"Sorrows   ripened  to  a  mel- 
low heart,"  275,  278 

Soul,  190 
Body  and,  218 

Spelling,  66 

Spinning,  206 

Spinning  Wheel  (verse),  69 

Spinster,  49,  69 

Spirituality,   24,    152 

Spring    (verse),  81 

Stories,    108 
Character,  185 
Dramatic  character,  109 

Story  of  Telka,  described,  149 

"Story  of  the  Judge  Bush," 
153-163 

Stranger,    The    (story),    108, 
122,  123-141 

Subconsciousness,  34,  35 

Teacher  of  anatomy,  182,  190 

Teacher  of  botany,  183 

Telka,  149,  150 

Theater,  53 

Throb,   202 

Timon,    124 

Tina,  124 

Tonio,  113 

Tournament,  114) 

Tricksters,   208 

Triviality,   10 

Truth,  182 

V.,   Dr.,   195-201 
Verse,  21 

Dictation,   manner,   65 

Range,  63 

Technique,  65,  81 
Virgin  Mary,  245 

W.,  Dr.,  176,  178 


W.,  Mrs.,  176,  178,  182 

War,  284 

War    (verse),   91 

"Waste  of  earth"  (verse). 
228-231 

Wasted  words,  243 

Wearied  ones,  227 

"Weaving,"  175 

Widow,  visitor  at  the  Cur- 
rans,  217,  218 

Wind   (verse),  75 

Winter    (verse),  79,  80 

Wisdom,   222 

Wit,  18,  19 

Worth,  Patience,  advent,  2; 
affection,  46;  appearance, 
207;  book  learning,  60; 
date,  37,  197;  elusiveness, 
60;  femininity,  42,  52; 
fun-loving  spirit,  53; 
impatience,  45,  46;  in- 
dividuality, 41;  laughter, 
love  of,  168;  love  her  in- 
spiration, 234;  men,  atti- 
tude toward,  49;  mes- 
sage, 224;  mission,  284, 
285;  obscurity,  199;  on 
being  investigated,  196; 
personality,  12,  59,  220, 
224 ;  phrases,  striking, 
40;  place,  38;  revelation, 
226;  sarcasm,  49;  speech, 
39,  56,  104,  149,  150,  153, 
164,-  189;  spinster,  49,  69; 
substance  in  her  words. 
211 

X.,  Dr.,  182-195,  204 
X.,  Mrs.,  182,  183 

Z.,  Dr.,  187-189 


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who  v»orked  side  by  side  with  men  through  the  siege  of  Verdun. 
And  America's  part  is  not  omitted.  Dorothy  Canfield  has  had 
unusual  opportunities  to  see  the  work  of  Americans  in  France, 
and  was  the  first  American  woman  to  follow  American  troops 
into  Chateau  Thierry.  The  book  reaches  its  culminating  point — 
and  its  end — in  her  wonderful  account  of  that  day  when  the 
salvo  of  cannon  from  the  Invalides  announced  to  Paris  and  the 
world  the  signing  of  the  armistice. 

HENRY    HOLT    AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


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